


Atlas

by vanitashaze



Series: How the Dead Live [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Agender Character, Alien Culture, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Aromantic Character, Aromantic Relationship, BDSM, Better Living and Psychological Healing Through Kinky Polyamory, Bisexual Character, Canon Disabled Character, Dom/sub, Epistolary, F/M, Future Fic, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masochism, Mental Health Issues, Multi, No Goats This Time But There is a Lizard, Non-Equilateral Triangle, Nonbinary Character, Politics, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Relationship Negotiation, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Romantic Relationship, Sadism, Service Submission, Substance Abuse, This is Actually a Happy Story I Promise, Threesome - F/M/M, Trauma Recovery, VLD is a war story that doesn't want to be a war story, metamours, sibling relationships, sub sharing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-04-07 02:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 142,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14071383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanitashaze/pseuds/vanitashaze
Summary: this is a callout post @mattholt#you know whyAlong the way to becoming a person again, Matt acquires a Cat, a crop, a Plan, two long distance relationships, a taste for the local tabletop roleplay game, and reluctantly, friends.





	1. Zept (Dry Season)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in the Alabanza ‘verse (which you don’t really need to have read to understand this) and is the sequel to How the Dead Live (which I recommend you do, although I guess you could just roll with it if you’re okay with jumping into things without all the context). The Alabanza and HtDL 'verse is an extended post-S4 canon AU of its own. Also, in one of those weird writing coincidences, the title of this fic was decided upon way back during S3, and as such has absolutely no relation to the ship on the show.
> 
> In the process of writing this, I came across a quote from an interview with Lauren Montgomery about Matt and Pidge’s relationship: “He’s still the Matt that [Pidge] knows. He had to evolve, but he didn’t leave himself behind or lose himself at all.” It stuck with me — and not in a good way — for… well, reasons and Reasons. Much like Bang, this wasn’t at all the story that I intended to write, but maybe it was the one I had to.
> 
> Content warnings are at the ends of each chapter. If you’re sensitive to issues of trauma, sex, kink, mental illness, and addiction, I recommend that you read them.

 

**ATLAS**

_later that night_  
_i held an atlas in my lap_  
_ran my fingers across the whole world_  
_and whispered  
_ _where does it hurt?_

_it answered_  
_everywhere_  
_everywhere  
_ _everywhere_

\- Warsan Shire

 

 _No easy thing, violence.  
_ _One of its names? Change._

\- Li-Young Lee

 

_We go on._

\- Joy Harjo

 

 

 ****Matt buys the lizard on his second day in his new city. He goes out looking for a stove, not a pet — as terrible a baker as she may be, Allura is firm in her dedication to eventually baking something that doesn’t have to be scoured out of the pan, but Hunk has apparently finally given up and banned her from the communal kitchen, so she’s decided to inflict her culinary ambitions on Matt’s kitchen instead.

 

That’s the line that she’s giving him, anyway, even if he has a sneaking suspicion that Mission: Stove Acquisition is just so that she has something to pointedly gesture towards during the next argument they have about Matt having a meal that doesn’t come from a bottle, no matter how many times he very reasonably points out that the contents of said bottle are going to make everything vacate his stomach anyway, so what’s the point of putting anything else in?

 

He’s not afraid of her temper — much, anyway; no more afraid than he is of everyone else’s — but the quiet sadness she sometimes turns towards him pricks him in places that he’d thought all feeling had been burned out of years ago, and so he goes along with her story, promises her that he’ll find something with no mold and only minimal amounts of rust, especially since he’s pretty sure that he won’t have to shell out extra money to get someone else to install it. His new apartment is just cool bare stone and holes in the walls, all the appliances ripped out by the last tenant when they left, but there’s a gas hookup that probably won’t explode if he tries to connect a stove to it. Anyway, if something goes wrong and it does explode into a white-hot fireball, at least his death will be quick and he won’t have to deal with buying any other appliances!

 

Shiro would probably object to that joke, but Shiro isn’t here. Shiro helped him move in and kissed him breathless in the doorway and left before the sun sunk below the skyline, so Shiro’s opinion in this situation doesn’t really matter. Also, Matt is hee-larious and technically Shiro is only eleven years old, which is too young to appreciate any kind of quality joke (and jokes including farts don’t count!).

 

The woman in his building’s stairwell that he reluctantly begs directions off of informs him where to find the city’s biggest furniture market, blocks of shops with second- and third-hand wares spilling out onto the sidewalks. The streets in this city have had millennia to be poorly planned out, though, twisting into each other like too many electrical cords stuffed into a drawer, and by the time Matt finally gives up and admits to himself that he’s well and thoroughly lost, he’s on the edges of the meat market instead, cringing away from the braying and cawing and occasional screams.

 

The butchers are giving him some quality Looks as he stands there, shaking slightly, but Matt tries to slingshot those Looks right back around with an extra thump of his staff-end on the cobblestones thrown in, because the Bad of them noticing his fear outweighs the Bad of being noticed at all, and he’ll go full asshole cyborg Gandalf on these fools if he has to, damn right they shouldn’t mess with him, if only he could stop whimpering every time he heard the wet thunk of a cleaver into wood.

 

It’s not that he’s blood-shy, or unused to violence. He’s probably seen worse than anything this place can offer, and at least nothing here is going to sob out that they’re sorry that they told those soldiers where to find you but they were going to kill my family, they put a blaster to my daughter’s head and I had no choice, do any of you have children? wouldn’t you do anything for them, anything at all? my children need me, please don’t do this, at least don’t do this right in front of them —

 

Anyway, he’s seen worse.

 

Really, this place shouldn’t bother him at all. (Take note, brain!) He eats meat when he can afford it; he knows where it comes from. He’s not even an animal lover, even if he had been when he was young, the sort of kid who rescued earthworms from sidewalks after a rainstorm and raised swallowtail butterflies and silkmoths alike and was always the first to volunteer to take the class pet home on the weekends and begged his parents for a pet of his own, any kind of pet, because Pidge was too young to play with and his classmates had all been too old to like the child prodigy shoved into their midst and he couldn’t actually ask his parents to give him a friend.

 

They did, though. Bae Bae had been his birthday present, his confidant, his playmate, his best friend, his guardian against the monsters that tapped at his door and rustled under his bed. Every time Matt wiggled out of bed and snuck into the nursery to make sure that none of the monsters had eaten baby Katie instead, Bae Bae had been there too, wuffling softly by his side.

 

These days Matt loves animals about as much as he loves people, i.e. so little that you’d have to use an electron microscope to see it, albeit with a few notable exceptions, two of which are the reason he’s going to buy a really big, really sturdy bed and the other of which he’s currently not talking to because apparently he can be their brother or a sorta-functioning alcoholic but he can’t be both.

 

He tries to hurry past the vendors without seeing any of what they’re selling, but then someone bumps into him and he startles back hard, nearly going face-first into the nearest stall, and he looks up to find a teetering wall of wooden cages full of lizards, fat and slow and emerald-bright. He’s planning on ignoring them like he has all the other animals here — from their sluggishness, they’re either sick, drugged, or already envisioning the frying pan they’re going to end up in — but there’s one that refuses to be ignored, scuttling up onto the bars so that it can better peer at Matt, and he gets the uncomfortable feeling that it’s judging him right back, in the way that their kind can always recognize each other, one prisoner to another.

 

Yeah, he thinks, watching its tongue flick and hiss. I’ve been there too.

 

“Hey, can they do anything other than get eaten?” Matt asks the vendor.

 

“They’re great vermin-catchers,” she says. “Especially bugs, but they’ll eat anything. _A-ny-thing._ ”

 

“I dunno if I really want something that eats vermin, that means _I_ can’t eat the vermin,” Matt says, even though hopefully he’s reached a point in his life where he doesn’t have to do things like that anymore, and he points to the one that’s eyeing him from its cage. “Eh. How much?”

 

“Seventy-seven, but for you, sixty-six,” the vendor says, and Matt laughs and says, “You just told the other guy half that and he said no. Twenty-two or I’m doubling back to the vendor five stalls down, hers looked a lot healthier than yours.”

 

“Forty-four,” the vendor tries.

 

“Twenty-two,” Matt repeats, gesturing expansively at the vendor’s total lack of other customers.

 

“Thirty-three, you little shit,” she snaps.

 

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” Matt says cheerfully. “Thirty-three it is. And don’t try to switch the lizard for a sick one.”

 

It only occurs to him after the vendor grumpily dumps the lizard into Matt’s arms that he hadn’t thought to get her to throw in the cage as well. Judging by her expression, the thought had occurred to her too, and she has absolutely no intention of doing anything about it other than price gouge him if he tries to buy a cage or gleefully watch Matt squirm with his new purchase. Her revenge will be swiftly thwarted, though, because his third-grade class had a bearded dragon and Matt was the only one his teacher trusted enough to hold Frizzle, so he straps his staff to his back, mentally knocks on wood that the lizard won’t take a chunk out of him and scoops it up against his arm and carefully supports its back legs as well, and the thing quiets, tail relaxing instead of whipping around.

 

Matt grins widely at the vendor, and then nearly drops the lizard as a food cart comes rumbling past and the lizard startles, so time for plan B: LizardBjorn.

 

The Secret Level Mission: Lizard Acquisition pretty much uses up all the time that he can stand to be out in a crowded area, though, so he ends up postponing Mission: Stove Acquisition to carry his impulse buy home bundled up in the light cloak thing that he’s been using to protect himself from instant and horrific sunburn, hoping that the fabric is comfortable enough for the lizard and also strong enough to hold it if it tries to thrash its way out, because including its tail the lizard is almost as big and thick as his entire arm and those teeth could do some serious damage.

 

The lizard doesn’t seem to be interested in attacking its ride, though, just contentedly taking in the scenery during the confusing and unnecessarily lengthy walk back to Matt’s building and up the stairs and finally into the sparse plastered-stone box that Matt’s paying what seems like way too much of money to rent, even though he’s been informed that it’s actually very reasonable and anything would seem like way too much after living for free in a sad abandoned goat cottage, so breathe in for ten, hold for five, breathe out for ten, and when you’re ready sign the deposit form and no, Matt, I’m not being condescending, Hunk taught me this and it really does work.

 

“Well, this is your stop,” Matt tells the lizard, setting the cloak bundle down on the floor so the lizard can wiggle its way out. “I wonder if you actually do anything, or that vendor was just lying to me to take my money.”

 

The lizard regards him for a moment, then scrabbles up the wall lightning-fast to snap up a millipede that’s skittering across the stone.

 

“Huh,” Matt says as the lizard gobbles up the millipede with a self-satisfied crunch. “I guess you have your uses after all.”

 

In the 100% Certified Adult part of his brain, he knows that there are about about fifty million things he should be doing before he runs off on a reptile research adventure. He’s spent the last few months devouring everything he could about the state of astrophysics research in this galaxy — (SO MUCH AND SO COOL!!!!!) — his mind slowly readjusting to science like squinting into light after weeks of darkness, but in two days from now he’s going to have to stand in front of students and seem like a real live person who’s going to rock their scientific world rather than just seventy-two panic attacks in a trench coat, and right now those are about 40% and 50% probabilities respectively with a 10% chance that Matt won’t show up at all.

 

Meanwhile, he’s also supposed to be finishing the move-in process. He’s already settled his garden out on the open balcony, carefully transferred back into their permanent pots, and unpacked his three boxes of belongings (i.e. “dumped them out on the floor and called it a day”), but he’s still got to buy and install and assemble the kinds of things people have in apartments, things like stoves and tables and the bed that he promised Shiro and Allura, which is a pretty short list that Matt has accomplished absolutely none of.

 

There are probably things that he should do beyond that, but for the life of him he couldn’t tell you what. He’s traveled light these last twenty years, just his weapons and a rucksack and the clothes on his back and sometimes not even that, everything in his life whittled down to a level of minimalism that would make Philip Glass sound like the 1812 Overture. Now he's got an entire 100 sq ft apartment all to himself, it doesn’t have holes in the roof or a collapsed chimney with winter on the way, and other than equip it with the level of bare necessities that Allura has prodded him into conceding to, he has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing with it now that survival is a given instead of a priority.

 

Instead of facing down any of that, though, he falls back to his old evade-and-escape tactics, digging his battered datapad out of his bags and then settling down on the floor to do some nice low-stakes lizard research while said lizard scuttles all over his belongings and his garden and the walls and occasionally Matt, snacking on all the creepy-crawlies attempting to live here rent-free.

 

“So apparently you’re not really a lizard,” Matt informs the lizard, because it’s entirely possible that the lizard didn’t know. “You’re actually an endothermic homeotherm like me. And since you don’t have a giant schlong, you’re female, or at least AFAB. Do you have a gender?”

 

The lizard sticks her tongue out at him.

 

“Well, if you do, I’ll respect that,” Matt says solemnly. “Otherwise I’m going to go by human standards and assume female PGPs; correct me if I’m wrong. Also, I hope you won’t be offended if I keep calling you a lizard. Your actual species name would have way too many vowels for me to handle even if I was entirely sober.”

 

The lizard blinks at him and then scuttles over to his spot on the floor, draping herself over one of the joints of his left prosthesis. Sun-warmed metal, Matt thinks. Probably pretty comfy, even for an endothermic homeotherm.

 

He didn’t set out today to acquire a pet, and he still doesn’t have one. She’s a working animal, a vermin catcher, a symbiont rather than a roommate. Matt already has Pidge, Shiro, Allura, too many people to care about, too many pieces of shrapnel lodged dangerously close to his heart; he doesn’t need another one. But there are plenty of days where it’s a challenge to make any words happen at all, much less multisyllabic ones.

 

“You need a better nickname than ‘The Lizard’,” Matt informs her. “Too long.” Then he grins. “But I think I have a pretty good idea.”

 

*

 

Allura hadn’t been able to actually be there to help Matt move in to his new apartment due to something about the fate of the galaxy, or well, okay, the fate of a wealthy apartheid ally and the people who dearly want it to be: a) a wealthy monospecies ally (species #1), b) a wealthy monospecies paradise with all existing treaties and alliances null and void (species #2), c) a wealthy multispecies multicultural ally making dramatic steps towards universal rights and suffrage ASA-fukin-P (the Galaxy Alliance), or d) a very bloody piece of grit in the political and ethical gears of the Galaxy Alliance and an eventual hole in the sky (Lotor). Still, she’d promised to make it out to Quuduzh within two weeks afterwards, bloody grit be damned.

 

Matt’s not expecting miracles, but to his surprise, he peels himself off the floor one weekend morning to 3 NEW MESSAGES beeping _SO LOUDLY_ at him.

 

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (11:08) Incoming!!!!

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (11:11) Shiro’s informed me that may have been a bad choice of announcement.

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (11:11) To be clear, _we’re_ incoming, as in Shiro and I are flying towards the Quuduzh public port and then taking local transportation to your building. No missiles or anything of the sort and no need to duck for cover, just a need to brush your teeth.

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (11:12) A _strong_ need.

 **me, an intellectual:** (11:12) if u use ur cloaking tech ur gona get caught. too many smugglers use it, port has antitech tech

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (11:13) Goodness. How do the smugglers get in?

 **me, an intellectual:** (11:13) when they turn off the antitech at night for KA-CHING KA-CHING 

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (11:14) Well, then it’s unfortunate that we’re not doing this at night.

 **me, an intellectual:** (11:14) lol hope u brought xwords

 

Sans (cloaked daring-do) + (bribes and aliases at the ready), Shiro and Allura’s jaunt away from their duties and responsibilities and public personas to visit their secret… um, whatever, ends up a lot less Harlequin and a lot more sitting in a traffic jam for two vargas, glumly staring out the window at the belching trade ships and fat, slow shuttles and the cruisers constantly zipping around them and arguing about whether it’d be more suspicious to zip out to join them or to stay put like the boring, rule-abiding citizens they are absolutely not.

 

“Oh, staying put, definitely,” Matt says when Allura vidcomms him for a rather staticky consult.

 

“You’ve only been here for a week and a half, how do you know?” Shiro grouses, but he’s drowned out by Allura’s triumphant “HA!” as she aims their cruiser at a gap between two shuttles.

 

“If we end up crushed by one of these shuttles, it’ll be your fault,” Shiro tells Matt, but he must see something in Matt’s face even though Matt thought he’d trained those kinds of expressions out of himself years ago, because Shiro hurries to say, “Actually, never mind. It’ll be Allura’s fault.”

 

“It won’t be my fault, because it won’t happen,” Allura says calmly while Shiro makes stoically horrified faces in the background at whatever maneuvers she’s pulling right now.

 

“Just don’t be _too_ good a pilot, that’ll definitely stand out,” Matt tells Allura, and then signs off so she can focus on piloting and he can focus on not imagining them dying in a fiery wreck and so much for the not imagining, but his new bed has a nice, inviting, slept-in look after he musses up the sheets with his _no firey wrecks asdfkljdfldsflk!!!!_ panic attack and his shirt has a slightly less nice, inviting smell after he kicks the panic attack with a few shots of his favorite central nervous system depressant but also manages to spill the last shot on himself.

 

He’s still digging through his clothes pile for a clean-ish shirt that doesn’t smell like him forgetting to do laundry when he hears the distinctive beep-beep-boop of a vidcom call from Allura, and he absently pulls it out of his pocket and flicks it on.

 

“I didn’t know naked vidcom calls were going to be a thing,” Shiro says, and Matt looks down and realizes that he’s still shirtless.

 

“I’m not naked, I’m half naked,” Matt informs him. “I was getting dressed.”

 

“That seems like a lot of extra effort,” Allura comments from somewhere behind Shiro.

 

“Just for that, I’m putting on something with a lot of tiny buttons,” Matt tells her, even though he doesn’t own any buttoned shirts at all because his hands are too tremorous to ever be able to do them up.

 

“I didn’t know stripteases were going to be a thing either,” Shiro says, smiling.

 

“Tease yes, strip definitely, but you don’t want to see me do them in combination,” Matt says. “Are you close?”

 

“In front of your building, actually,” Shiro says. “Put on your thing with tiny buttons and come let us in.”

 

“Coming,” Matt says, and then adds, “Well, not _yet_ ,” and Shiro’s groan is drowned out by Allura’s laugh.

 

He snags the closest shirt out of the pile in front of him — giant hole at the bottom but no mud or blood or vomit or any of the other gross things he’s previously ended up covered in (a few really unfortunate times while in Shiro and/or Allura’s presence), win! — and hurries out, clattering down the stairs and doing his best to ignore any other building residents that he passes, which is made harder by the fact that stairs normally require knees and the ones in his prosthesis kind of suck no matter how much he tinkers with them and he moves about as fast as the wifi connection at a truck stop.

 

Shiro and Allura are waiting for him out on the street. As many curious looks as Matt generally gets, Shiro is getting twice that and more — Allura’s wearing a nondescript shirt and skirt and she’s shifted her hair and facial markings, but Shiro, idiot celebrity that he is, is barely even trying to look incognito, his only concession to his galaxy-wide fame a long-sleeved shirt and gloves, all black from the neck down.

 

“You look like a lazy Catwoman cosplay,” Matt tells him.

 

“Well, I ran out of time to do the ears,” Shiro says.

 

Allura kisses Matt on the cheek hello like normal, the faint brush of her lips and a whisper of her perfume stealing into his lungs, ozone and smoke and bloodbark and oil. It smells rich and explosive, like the Alteans managed to cram a dying star into a perfume bottle.

 

“Hey, is that your grandma’s perfume?” Matt asks before his brain has time to slap a hand over his mouth.

 

“Yes, it is,” Allura says cheerfully. “I don’t get to wear it out much. Some of the diplomats and leaders we encounter have unfortunately long memories.”

 

“Too bad,” Matt says. “It’s a good scent on you,” and then Shiro’s there, Shiro who isn’t wearing his murderous grandmother’s perfume, just that soft indescribable Shiro-smell you can only tell once you get close enough to touch and kiss and even better, just tuck your face into the crook of his neck and breathe, that would totally be socially appropriate here!, this is a proud multicultural multispecies metropolis and that means that you can get away with almost any kind of TMI PDA because no matter what you do it’s going to be someone’s formal means of greeting, after the faculty lunch last week Matt saw one visiting professor put his tentacle in the bursar’s —

 

Anyway, Matt would like to smell Shiro in public, or just kiss him hello, but Shiro is all tall and broad and handsome, and Matt’s _very_ into the broad and handsome but getting most of his legs blown off in his late twenties pretty much negated the growth spurt he’d had after he was liberated from the camp and started eating enough to get his bone density back to fighting shape (literally), and for all the memories Matt’s managed to tear out of his head he can’t quite get rid of that one, Shiro and a sword and the sick terror at how far Shiro might be willing to go to protect him and how powerless Matt would be to stop it.

 

There’s also way too many eyes on this street to just be standing here staring at each other like mooncalfs, so Matt hustles them into his building and the relative safety that it provides, past the lobby’s green-tiled floor and vividly orange walls that make him feel like he’s living inside a giant carrot, double-time fast past any neighbors they pass in the hall, until the three of them arrive at the peeling blue paint of his apartment door.

 

“Ta-da,” Matt announces, shepherding them inside.

 

“My,” Allura says, surveying the place the way a cat looks over a petsitter’s house. “It’s quite… grey.”

 

“You pay extra for paint,” Matt explains. “And glass windows. I sprung for those! And look — stove.”

 

“Oh, excellent, I have plans for that,” Allura says, nearly rubbing her hands together in glee.

 

“Should I be worried about that?” Matt mutters to Shiro, who’s gingerly settled into one of the three chairs that Matt scavened just for them.

 

“Eh, she probably won’t burn your building down,” Shiro says, and beckons Matt down to straddle his lap, kissing him with one hand in Matt’s hair and the other sliding up his shirt at his back, fierce and welcoming.

 

“You two seem eager to get things on,” Allura comments, sitting on the edge of Matt’s very big, very sturdy bed to bounce experimentally on the mattress.

 

“What can I say, that vidcom call really got me going,” Shiro deadpans. “Disappointed about the lack of tiny buttons, though.”

 

“I’ve got plenty of clothes with tiny buttons, darling, you won’t go unsatisfied,” Allura assures him.

 

“So should I add that to the list?” Matt teases. “Fisting, hair pulling, tiny buttons?”

 

“If they come with you included,” Shiro says, smiling, and Matt kisses him again for fear of what he might say next.

 

Maybe Shiro can taste the alcohol on Matt’s breath or smell it on his skin, because his smile has dimmed a little bit when he pulls back, but Matt’s still plenty cognisant and capable of consent and Shiro has no right to judge him for his coping mechanisms when Matt’s made it clear that he comes as-is and what Shiro and Allura are going to be getting is basically a drinking problem with Matt included. If they get tired of that then they’re free to get rid of him, but they haven’t so far, although he’s a little confused as to why not. He’s definitely something that you keep the gift receipt for.

 

“So, is Allura testing my mattress quality because of plans, or just because beds are bouncy castles for grown-ups?” he asks Shiro.

 

“No specific plans that I’m aware of,” Shiro says, although his voice is a little muffled by the way that he’s apparently decided to play his favorite game, “Kiss Every Freckle on Matt” starting with the side of Matt’s neck, which is really distracting and Matt would tell him to stop so they can keep going with the sweet threesome dialogue if “Kiss Every Freckle on Matt” wasn’t one of his favorite games too, other than maybe Scrabble.

 

“Some intent, but not specific plans,” Allura says, with the sly little edge to her voice that hints at what that intent might be. “You’re very welcome to join me on your adequate mattress if you’d like to find out what it is.”

 

“ _Adequate_ ,” Matt mumbles. “I’ll show you _adequate_.”

 

“Well, let’s hope not,” Allura says. “I prefer exceptional.”

 

“Not to toot my own horn, but I can show you exceptional too,” Matt informs her. “So to _oh_.”

 

“Yes, Shiro’s quite good at exceptional as well,” Allura says smugly, but Matt is a little too busy shivering with pleasure under Shiro’s mouth and Shiro’s hands and Shiro’s general aura of exceptional sexiness. Sexceptional. Sexceptional Shiro.

 

“Okay, yes, adequate mattress here we come,” Matt says.

 

“Wow, you said come and didn’t make a terrible pun,” Shiro says as he follows Matt to said mattress. “I’m impressed.”

 

Matt plunks down on edge of the bed next to Allura and smiles winningly. “That’s because _here_ we come.”

 

“Never mind, not impressed at all,” Shiro says, but promptly contradicts that by sinking to his knees, hands already at Matt’s belt buckle. “Is this okay?”

 

“Okay is a serious understatement,” Matt says. “Allura was right, you _are_ eager,” and Shiro smiles, nuzzling into Matt’s thigh a bit.

 

“I missed you,” Shiro says.

 

“I saw you a week and a half ago,” Matt reminds him.

 

“Still,” Shiro says.

 

Allura lays a hand on Matt’s shoulder, a quieter kind of question; Matt nods, and she curls up against him, warm and comforting, which are not the adjectives that he would have previously associated with voyeurism, but Shiro and Allura are a whole new grammatical experience.

 

Matt’s fucked a few married people in his life, some whose partners knew about it, but at least he’d been smart enough not to rub it in said partners’ faces. Shiro and Allura don’t care who’s rubbing what where — they love each other, they like being around each other, and Allura sometimes gets off on it but Shiro never does, and either way both of them will happily settle in to watch their partner have sex with someone else and feel nothing but <3 <3 <3.

 

It’s weirded more of a few of their bedmates out, who could instantly understand Allura getting off to the sight and sound of Shiro getting pounded into the mattress but didn’t know what to make of it when she just held his hand through it instead, but Matt likes it, although he’s not sure how much he’s allowed to like it and what part of him he’s allowed to like it with. It’s different in kink situations, where part of Allura dom-ing up is showing Shiro off, encouraging Matt to appreciate Shiro’s beauty and skill and how hard he works to please and pleasure, how good he is for them both, but getting off to them during vanilla sex-time feels like intrusion rather than invitation, even though they both have assured him that he’s not intruding at all.

 

Today definitely looks like it’s the sex kind of voyeurism, though, because Allura is already smiling in the way that means that it’s a good thing she’s already ruched her skirt up to her knees because she’s going to have her hand up it any time soon now, and Matt shifts a little so she can have a better view as Shiro gets Matt’s cock out and into his mouth — complete with that showy little ‘put the condom on hands-free’ move that Matt would call the Shiro Special if Shiro didn’t have so, _so_ many other specials — and settles into a rhythm that makes Matt simultaneously really sad that they waited so long to start having sex when they could have been doing this all the way back at the Garrison AND really happy that they hadn’t been, because teenage Matt would have gone off in about 0.005 seconds every single time and that’s not the impression that he wants to make on a devastatingly handsome partner who really loves giving head and would probably like to do it for at least a whole minute — maybe even two!

 

Even given Matt’s thankfully-not-a-teenager-anymore stamina, Shiro’s going to be super disappointed if he’s planning on an oral sex marathon, because he’s really got that mouth going and Allura’s got that hand going and Matt’s desperately hoping that she’ll be into his hands and/or mouth heading down to join it — or maybe Shiro really is planning on an oral sex marathon, there’s nowhere in the sex bylaws that says that he has to stick to one person — when Shiro abruptly startles, pulling off and looking around frantically.

 

“Shiro?” Matt asks cautiously, because if something’s sent Shiro into one of his bad episodes Matt would rather not be in the blast zone, but Shiro doesn’t look afraid or enraged, just baffled.

 

“What was —” Shiro mutters, and then Cat scuttles out from underneath the bed, claws digging into Matt’s skin as she climbs up his pants leg to nestle in his lap, although Matt hastily repositions her to his thigh before she digs her little claws into the more sensitive parts of him.

 

“Why is there a lizard?” Shiro demands.

 

“Technically she’s not a lizard, but close enough,” Matt says. “This is Cat, she’s my pest control. Sorry if she startled you.”

 

“...You named your lizard Cat?” Shiro asks. Beside Matt, Allura peers interestedly at her, tentatively reaching out to stroke Cat’s rough hide. At least she’s got her other hand out from under her skirt; your kink is not my kink but your kink is okay but please do it somewhere else fantasizing about someone else’s lizard.

 

“That’s the stereotype, and as you know, I’m really into those,” Matt tells Shiro. “Bookish university professor, long distance relationship, has a cat. So now I do!”

 

Shiro stares at Cat for a moment, who stares back at him, tongue flicking out to taste the air — ew, Matt thinks — before Cat climbs up onto Matt’s shoulder, her favorite perch when she’s not stalking helpless small creatures around the apartment and roof.

 

“Okay, I really want to keep having sex with you, but you are going to change the condom _and_ wash that,” Shiro tells Matt, sending a meaningful look down at Matt’s cock. “With soap.”

 

“She barely touched me, and anyway, she’s not that dirty,” Matt protests. “I mean, I’ll wash if you want, but it’s not like she has mites or anything.”

 

“Matt, we are plenty kinky,” Shiro says. “But I’m not licking a lizard.”

 

Matt does go wash, with soap, but when he re emerges from his tiny washroom with a new condom and hope in his heart, Cat is still on the bed, hissing ominously at Shiro.

 

“Hey, quit harassing my sex person,” Matt tells her, and tries to ignore the expression that flashes over Shiro’s face at that, which his brain of course takes as an invitation to ⌘S every pixel of it to agonize over later when he's trying to fall asleep.

 

Cat proves to be similarly obedient, because she just keeps hissing at Shiro, and threat of lizard attack kind of kills the mood. Matt tries relocating her to the battered shipping crate that he liberated from the cruel confines of one of the university’s storage rooms — and hadn’t that been an interesting bus ride home — but Cat just scratches loudly and disruptively at its sides, occasionally letting loose with one of her croaking barks, and Shiro just ends up leaning up against the wall, arms crossed and scowling resentfully at Matt’s cockblocking pest control service while Matt and Allura try not to snicker at his expression.

 

“On our last vidcom call you mentioned roof access?” Allura asks Matt, and Matt perks up, because Allura always has the best ideas — except when she has the worst, like coming to visit them on the Castle or giving a shit about the state of his liver — and being out in public is always terrifying but he can be brave enough enough for semi-public sex if they're there with him too.

 

“I do, that’s great, let’s go,” he says brightly, pulling her up by the hand.

 

“Access to a _public_ roof?” Shiro asks worriedly.

 

“Well, yeah, but people have sex up there all the time,” Matt says. “There’s enough laundry to be a curtain and people don’t care as long as you don’t make too much noise. There’s even a communal sex mattress.”

 

“I am not having sex on a _communal sex mattress_ ,” Shiro says, sounding horrified, which is pretty silly considering that a communal sex mattress is way better than a communal sex dark corner, and Matt’s lived in plenty of places where that was the only option unless you wanted to just start going at it in your bedroll surrounded by all the other rebel fighters in your cell.

 

Matt always chose the corner, even though it was always kind of gross, even during the night when most people were asleep. He’s not a big fan of exposed places and he’s definitely not a fan of being naked and off guard in exposed places, even in the dark. Especially in the dark.

 

“It’s B.Y.O.S.,” he assures Shiro. “Bring your own sheets.”

 

“Somehow, that is worse,” Shiro says.

 

He still follows Matt up to the roof, though, and makes Matt put down four layers of sheets — only one of which actually belongs to Matt, but Matt’s liberated entire towns before so he isn’t too torn up (heh) about liberating a few clean bedsheets — before gingerly settling down onto the communal sex mattress while Allura peers interestedly at the vast archipelago of Matt’s neighborhood, each block squashed together into its own island, buildings butting up against their neighbors with their flat rooftop areas separated only by low walls and sometimes not even that. Quuduzh is enormous but its population is even bigger, chaos crammed into too many tiny apartments, and so the rooftops serve as common space during the dry season, fresh(ish) air and a place to eat and nap and let your kids run around and hang out with your friends and family.

 

Matt hasn’t spent a lot of time up here — he can feed himself just fine in his safe(er) apartment, he’s too twitchy to sleep in public, and he doesn’t have kids or friends and his only remaining family isn’t here but wouldn’t want to hang out with him even if they were — but he’s been up here a few times, first to air out the grey moon-must from all his stuff and then to scout it out to assess his building’s level of security, which is roughly none, /sarcastic yay, *genuine terror*, *little martini emoji*

 

At least his building’s rooftop has (slightly) fewer screaming children than the one two buildings over, although there are two aunties here who seem to be permanent fixtures, doing nothing but drink and smoke and gossip and bitch about their children and grandchildren and play pemme. They’ve invited him to play with them — “Seeing how you’re supposedly smart, and this one isn’t,” one of them had said, jerking her head at the other one, who proceeded to cuss her out while Matt slunk away back to his apartment — but he hasn’t had non-essential social interaction with strangers for more than half a varga in years and he doesn’t see any need to mess with a strategy that’s obviously been working for him, seeing as how he’s still alive and free and at no one’s mercy but his own brain’s and body’s, which are practically his best friends compared to some of the things and people he’s been at the mercy of before.

 

“Are you planning on joining us, or do I get Shiro all to myself?” Matt asks Allura.

 

“I believe you promised me exceptional, so no, you do not,” Allura says, joining Shiro on the communal sex mattress tucked away in a corner behind rows and rows of laundry and a few sheets hung specifically for some thin semblance of modesty. Then Matt pulls the sheets closed, an instant bubble blind to the world around them. That would instantly flick his panic on/off switch if he were alone, but it feels okay with Shiro and Allura here with him. It feels safe, somewhere to have just to themselves instead of somewhere to hide.

 

It also feels like it’s rapidly becoming a little bubble of sex, because Shiro is too sexy for his shirt and Allura is swiftly addressing this problem by kneeling astride his lap so she can peel it off of him, made harder by the fact that he’s trying to get her shirt off at the same time, until she laughs and gives up, pulling hers off first — clearly a tactical mistake, because that makes her breasts much more available to Shiro’s cunning ploys and he immediately takes advantage of this fact, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hands get busy sliding up her thighs.

 

Matt’s had a few threesomes before — and once, memorably, a fivesome in the oh-shit-we’re-still-alive adrenaline rush after a bad battle, although he’d had to tap out in the middle because there were just too many hands and too many bodies and way too little communication about who could do what to him where — but he’s never slept with a couple whose relationship he actually gave a shit about enough to be self-conscious with them. He does care a little about Shiro and Allura, though — as much as he’d really like not to, because it’s thinking like that that leads to Bad Decisions — and it’s moments like these that make him wonder what they even get out of having sex with him, since they clearly don’t need anyone but each other to be happy.

 

Then Allura looks at him and beckons him down to join them, and he does, easing himself down to sit next to Shiro, who gives Allura’s nipple one last particularly hard suck before he pulls off and looks between them and a thought bubble practically pops into existence over his head — breast or blowjob? breast or blowjob? — until Allura gives him a little shove and says, “Matt first, I was quite enjoying it before.”

 

“Can I help you enjoy it afterwards, too?” Matt asks her as he lays down, Shiro settling between his legs — and oh, my non-existent kingdom for my legs back, Matt thinks, because there are so many positions he wants to do with (and to) Shiro rather than just the same-old same-old — and then Shiro gets his mouth back on Matt’s cock and Matt remembers that the same-old can be pretty wowza too.

 

“You may,” Allura says. “And during, if you feel so inclined.”

 

“Very inclined,” Matt gasps out. “Incredibly inclined. How did he get this _good_?”

 

“Practice,” Allura says smugly. “I’d quite like your mouth as well, if you can manage.”

 

“I’m a great multitasker,” Matt assures her. “You’re going to need to be on top, though. And, um, no mucous glands.”

 

“And that won’t bother you?” Allura asks.

 

“The mucous glands?” Matt asks. “Yeah, those bother me. The… texture. Totally a me not you thing, though!”

 

“Yes, I’m happy to accommodate that,” Allura says. “I meant me being on top,” softly, like Shiro won’t be able to hear it anyway.

 

Matt just smiles and shakes his head no, because that’s a lot more polite than telling her, _You’re not him_.

 

Allura nods back and scooches around until she can swing her leg over and settle over his face and Matt tells his eternally distracting little panic voice to zip it and gets to work, although unlike some of his sexual experiences this work is 100% for fun and not at all for profit. Shiro’s not the only one who really loves giving head, and eating Allura out is always a Really Awesome Experience (R.A.E.) as long as she turns off her mucous glands. Matt wishes that it could be Really Awesome with Shiro too, or even just okay, but there’s only some kinds of things and some kinds of bodies he can handle doing said things to and unfortunately Shiro’s is not one of them.

 

Chasing that rabbit won’t lead him to Wonderland, though, just get him stuck in a stupid dark little hole, so Matt just concentrates on Allura and giving her an R.A.E. too, concentrates on the taste and scent and feel and the way she’s grinding down onto him while Shiro’s busy concentrating on him, Matt’s eyes closed and the sounds of the city around them muffled by Allura’s thighs on either side of his head, until the pleasure given and the pleasure got swirls together and everything is just sensation, a place away from the world and its stupid dark little rabbit holes and stupid dark-hearted little people — but Matt already has a place like that in his mind and it’s a bad place, a nothing-place, a place to hide, and he dimly realizes that he can’t really see and he can’t really hear and he sort of knows who’s touching him but he also really doesn’t and it feels good but it doesn’t and he’s flat on a mattress underneath someone and there could be an entire fucking battalion standing over him and he wouldn’t know, he couldn’t defend himself, he couldn’t do anything, he doesn’t know who’s touching him, _he doesn’t know where he is_ —

 

— and he frantically slaps at whoever’s on top of him until they get off him and he opens his eyes to find Allura hovering over him, looking worried, and he sits up to see Shiro’s pulled off and is kneeling, also looking at him with concern, and Matt’s heart is pounding like he’s been trying to outrun something before it shoots him down but he’s also still got an erection going, which is just stupid and pathetic and —

 

“Well, this isn’t embarrassing at all,” Matt says, and Shiro and Allura’s expressions clear into relief, because this isn’t the first time he’s disassociated or panicked or flashed back during sex and sometimes it’s way worse. He doesn’t think he lost any time, at least, and he can make words and thoughts happen. That’s something.

 

“Any particular thing?” Shiro asks.

 

“...Sensory deprivation?” Matt guesses. “Which is not something I would associate with facesitting and is especially stupid since facesitting is one of the most sensory sex-experiences there is, and I _like_ it, facesitting is awesome, so curse you, brain.”

 

“I should have been talking to you,” Allura says. That’s usually Shiro’s thing in no-line-of-sight situations, but it looks like it should be Matt’s too.

 

“Well, add it to the list,” Matt says glumly. “Not the fun kink list. The sucky trigger list.”

 

“Want to keep going?” Shiro asks, then clarifies, “With something else, not sensory deprivation.”

 

“Yeah, I think so,” Matt says, which is a decision made out of 50% _I actually do want to feel good and I think I’ll get back there_ and 50% _I’m tired of ruining everything for everyone all the time_. “But I want to focus on someone else for a while. Not me.”

 

“Well, I’m quite happy to be focused on,” Allura says cheerfully, which Matt supposes is the sort of attitude one cultivates when one’s long-term partner has occasionally violent and always unpredictable PTSD.

 

“And I’m quite happy to be the one focusing on you,” Shiro tells her, smiling fondly,

 

They rearrange themselves somewhat awkwardly, Allura up on her side with Shiro lying perpendicular behind her, happily focusing away, and Matt ends up just making out with her, eyes open and slowly beginning to relax (well, as much as he ever does). He’s probably not helping her along to an R.A.E., especially with his freak-out earlier, but he tries to at least nudge her into a really awesome experience while Shiro takes care of the capital letters and maybe even tips her into capslock, wow is Shiro talented at oral sex, he should be more famous for that than for being the Black Paladin, but Matt’s glad he isn’t, because then there’d be a line.

 

Eventually Allura comes, eyes closed and sighing against Matt’s mouth, her markings blooming up on her cheekbones and her hair shifting from black to white to black like a wave rising and breaking against the shore (Alteans come with their own orgasm-meter, how cool is that — just another of the many, _many_ reasons Matt envies Allura and her shapeshifting) before gently shooing away Shiro, who’s looking pretty far along on that orgasm meter himself.

 

“Want to be focused on now?” Shiro asks Matt, but Matt just shakes his head.

 

“You?” Matt asks him, and Shiro nods, smiling, clambering over Allura until he’s lying between them, face-to-face with Matt with Allura pressed up against his back. Sometimes all Shiro wants is kissing, or kissing and touching with an orgasm as just a fun surprise if one comes along, but the weather forecast is looking like orgasms today because Shiro is turned on and ready to go, eagerly thrusting into Matt’s hand while Matt preemptively shuts him up with a kiss. As quiet as Shiro is during kink time, he can get _loud_ during vanilla sex-time, and Matt would rather keep his eardrums intact, thanks.

 

Behind Shiro, Allura grins and laughs a little — clearly thinking the same thing — and then whispers something in Shiro’s ear; Shiro nods, and she rolls away, rooting around in their clothes for a moment and coming back with what Matt recognizes as Shiro and Allura’s sex kit (travel size version), since they’re the kind of couple who combine an obsessive need to be prepared for every eventuality (Shiro) with a firm belief that spontaneity is the spice of life and said spontaneity can happen in all sorts of places if you’re creative enough (Allura).

 

Matt can hazard a guess as to what Shiro said yes to, because it’s definitely in Shiro’s Top 10 Favorite Recreational Activities (At Least Six of Them Will Surprise You!), and sure enough, Allura comes back and Shiro shifts forward a little and then shudders in a way that means that Allura‘s added fingering into the mix, Shiro caught between sensation and sensation and stifling moans against Matt’s mouth. It’s not something that happens for Matt or Allura — Matt because of Reasons, and Allura because of r(R?)easons that Matt’s decided he doesn’t need (want) to know — but Shiro has a delightfully sensitive prostate and a propensity towards f-verbs and he’s not shy about expressing it, loudly and enthusiastically.

 

Between Matt and Allura and how much Shiro enjoyed all the focusing he did before (how much he _always_ enjoys it — like Matt said, line out the door and around the block), it doesn’t take that long to herd him towards an orgasm, panting and shaking and moaning loud enough to crack the new window-glass every time Matt does something on the other side of too rough and finally coming with an ear-rattling shout right against the mattress next to Matt’s head. Shiro hasn’t even fully gotten his breath back before he asks Matt, “Want to be focused on now?” and Matt snorts, because of course the first thing that pops into Shiro’s head after a great orgasm is ‘When can I get back to giving that blowjob?’

 

“Yes,” Matt tells him, and Shiro smiles at him with an uncomfortable amount of fondness and gets back to work.

 

Shiro’s slower than before, less frantic, settling into a rhythm that means that he’s planning to do this for a while and enjoy it no matter the end result — the joys of long-term alcohol (ab)use! — and Allura cuddles up to Matt, sleepy and loose-limbed in the way that she gets after orgasms. She’s also looking uncomfortably fondly at him, so Matt just focuses on feeling: Shiro’s mouth and the smell of Allura’s skin and her hair, the pressure of her head on his collarbone, the faint brush of her every exhale across his skin, the sound of the city around and below them, the blazingly blue sky above them already starting to shade into sunset red.

 

He doesn’t think an orgasm is in the cards for him today, so it surprises when it does come along, a long, slow wash of pleasure through his body that briefly chases away the constant pain in his back and hips and legs — and then it’s back, and he’s back, and Shiro’s already cleaning himself and Matt off with the top sheet and then pulling on his clothes, and so Matt does the same, shrugging off Allura, who flops down onto the mattress, making absolutely no attempt to do anything but watch them and occasionally yawn.

 

“The community needs their sex mattress back,” Matt reminds her.

 

“The community does not need their sex mattress back at this very moment,” Allura says, but reluctantly starts packing up their sex kit and dressing while Shiro helps Matt get the not-so-clean-anymore sheets off the mattress (sorry, neighbors) so Matt can launder them and return them to the clothesline and in the meantime just hope that they didn’t have any sentimental value.

 

“So I was doing some research,” Shiro starts, “and apparently Quuduzh is known for its parks?”

 

“Can’t comment,” Matt says, busily wadding up the stolen sheets so he doesn’t have to look at Shiro and the gentle encouragement he knows is coming. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to one.”

 

“Would you like to?” Shiro asks. “The one in your district isn’t far from here, and it’s a short walk. It would be easy on your legs.”

 

“My legs are just fine,” Matt says, because today is only a 4 out of 10 on the Matt Holt Functional Pain Scale (i.e. a normal person’s 7). “You two should go if you want to.”

 

“Would you come with us if we did?” Shiro asks. Behind him, Allura is very carefully Not Listening In, Not At All, In Fact I Can’t Even Hear You, I Don’t Have Ears And If I Did I Wouldn’t Be Using Them To Listen To You.

 

“I… can’t,” Matt tells them, lamely. “I went to work today. I’m peopled out.”

 

“So we’re not people now?” Shiro asks, eyebrow raised.

 

“No, you’re way too pretty to be anything other than figments of my imagination,” Matt says, and Allura preens while Shiro just looks mildly uncomfortable, like he doesn’t already know that there are about ten thousand porn flicks featuring his look-alikes (or not really look alikes but hey we’re trying, six arms means more hands to get you off with!) and at least five smutty novels, one of which Matt is pretty sure he spotted one of the aunties reading the other day. “I’m just talking to thin air.”

 

“You’ve certainly spent an interesting half a varga, then,” Allura says with a meaningful look down at the sex mattress. “Were you doing all the voices yourself, do you think?”

 

“Oh, totally,” Matt says. “I’m expecting my Academy Award any day now.”

 

“Was that the sort of thing they gave out awards for at your academy?” Allura asks. “I would have thought that Lance would have mentioned that a long time ago. Well, bragged about that a long time ago.”

 

“It’s a movie award for acting,” Shiro tells her, “and there’s no Academy Award for Best Sex Voices. Or any kind of sex thing.”

 

“And that’s a shame, because if that was a category, you’d win it,” Matt tells him, grinning. “A whole trophy case of Best Blowjobs.”

 

“It does seem terribly unfair to have one’s achievements go uncelebrated,” Allura agrees solemnly. “Maybe I’ll have something commissioned.”

 

“You should,” Matt says excitedly. “A giant golden phallus on a little pedestal. Just engrave Shiro’s name on it and display it out in the common room, no explanations.”

 

“We are not doing that,” Shiro says, looking alarmed at Allura’s thoughtful expression.

 

“Don’t worry, darling, above the bed is much more tasteful,” Allura tells him.

 

“I wish I could be a fly on the wall the first time Pidge goes to wake you up for something,” Matt says, sighing wistfully.

 

“Or you could just be in the room,” Allura says, suspiciously lightly, and the conversation fizzes out like soda left open on the counter, flat and cloyingly artificial on his tongue.

 

“Or you could just give me the recap,” Matt says. “You could even do the voices.”

 

Allura looks ready to press play on _Will Matt Visit Them on the Castle?_ (spoiler alert: no he fucking won’t), probably episode 38: “It Doesn’t Even Need to Be a Full Day, How About Just a Varga?”, since that appears to be her favorite — at least she’s smart enough to have only screened episode 51: “You and Pidge Need to Stop Being So Stubborn, If I Had My Father Back…” once — but Shiro subtly shakes his head and she subsides, scowling.

 

“I’ll put these in your apartment,” Allura says, snatching the bundle of wadded-up sheets from Matt’s arms.

 

“ _I’ll_ put these in my apartment,” Matt says, snatching them right back.

 

“I’ll go with,” Shiro says quietly, and Allura nods curtly and pushes her way past the privacy sheets, hopefully to go walk around the rooftop and work out some of her frustration but probably to just go build it up further.

 

“Worried I’m going to fall down the stairs?” Matt asks him as they set off towards the door to the stairwell.

 

“Maybe I just like your company,” Shiro says.

 

“Just as long as you’re not planning on picking up where she left off,” Matt warns him.

 

“I’m not,” Shiro says. “I get where she’s coming from, but if you’re not ready, you’re not ready.”

 

“I might not ever be ready,” Matt reminds him for the fifty thousandth time. “I don’t even know if I _want_ to be ready. I did my part, I did more than my part, I _lost_ some of my parts, and maybe you guys can keep fighting, but I can’t. Not anymore. I’m done and I’m not getting dragged back into it.”

 

“The Castle isn’t like how it used to be,” Shiro says as they start down the stairs to Matt’s floor. “It’s mostly a mobile base of operations at this point — somewhere politically neutral to conduct business and keep the Lions when they’re not out in the field. There are kids living on it. We’re thinking of inviting some support staff onboard too. It’s only a warship in emergencies.”

 

“And how often do those come along?” Matt asks pointedly, and Shiro’s silence is answer enough. “Active or inactive, it’s still a warship, and even if you win this war, there’s always going to be another one. That’s what Voltron is for.”

 

“To fight wars?” Shiro asks.

 

“Yeah,” Matt says. “And to end them.”

 

“The official line is that we stop wars from ever starting in the first place,” Shiro says.

 

Matt snorts. “That’s like trying to stop a black hole. A whole field of black holes.”

 

“Always the optimist,” Shiro says as they reach Matt’s door.

 

“That’s the great thing about adulthood,” Matt says as he checks to see if the strand of hair he left between his apartment door and the doorframe is still there. “You get to realize how full of shit you were as a teenager.”

 

“You weren’t —” Shiro starts, then cuts himself off, smiling ruefully. “Sorry.”

 

“Apology accepted,” Matt says magnanimously. “But watch it, Shirogane.”

 

“Or what?” Shiro teases.

 

“Or I make you wash these sheets by yourself,” Matt says.

 

“For you, that is an oddly nonsexual service task, but sure,” Shiro says. “Add it to the list for next time.”

 

“Well, I don’t think I can hold onto these sheets for _that_ long,” Matt says. “Somebody’s going to notice that they’re missing, and I don’t care about I making friends here, but I don’t want to make enemies.”

 

“Wait, those aren’t your sheets?” Shiro asks, frowning.

 

“No, I only own one and you wanted more, so I borrowed someone else’s,” Matt says.

 

“Okay, I’m not waiting until next time, we’re washing these right now,” Shiro says hurriedly.

 

“Eh, I’m not that torn up about it,” Matt says. “Even if I just stole them, it’d be sheetsy for the owners to replace them.”

 

“Matt,” Shiro says.

 

“Besides, I don’t want to leave Allura hanging out to dry,” Matt continues.

 

“Matt,” Shiro says.

 

“After all, you never know,” Matt says, grinning. “Sheet happens.”

 

“I’m just going to do these myself,” Shiro says, grabbing the bundle away from Matt.

 

“Okay, you’re right, that was objectively tearable,” Matt says.

 

There’s a pun about being three sheets to the wind practically dancing on the tip of his tongue, but Shiro’s smiling a little in the way that means that he’s just teasing and it’s been so long since Matt’s had someone who smiled at him in any way, much less like that, so he manages to rein himself in (barely) and instead helps Shiro give the thankfully not too gross and if anyone notices I blame that bird! sheets a quick scrub in the sink and then plucks out another hair for the door and back up the stairs to the roof they go, Shiro pretending not to notice the way that Matt’s wincing a little bit with every step and Matt pretending not to notice Shiro pretending not to notice.

 

Okay, his homemade prosthesis aren’t as good as Shiro’s, but Matt is not a mechanically engineered cyborg superweapon modified with an entire galactic empire’s resources at his no Matt I’m still not calling it the r-word _or_ the s-word so let’s just say “captor’s” disposal, just a boring dime-a-dozen bombmaking resistance fighter with a bad assistant and a stolen case of anti-personnel landmines, so Shiro shouldn’t judge Matt by his own standards, not that Shiro ever passes up an opportunity to judge anyone.

 

Matt’s mentally arming up for another rerun of _WMVTotC?_ , but when he cautiously peeks his head out the door, Allura isn’t lurking nearby so he and Shiro casually ‘we’re not returning stolen sex sheets!!!’ over to the clotheslines and pin the damp sheets up more or less where they were before, trying not to make eye contact with any of Matt’s neighbors in the process. At least Shiro’s got his lazy Catwoman cosplay suit back on, gloves and all, although it doesn’t do much for the scar or the hair and the head-to-toe black isn’t helping him blend in much anyway — in the dry season daytime Quuduzh is about fifty billion degrees, and for some species here that’s practically the Arctic but Shiro is clearly not one of them, looking absolutely miserable in the heat.

 

“You should drink some water,” Matt realizes. “A lot of it.”

 

“Only if you do too,” Shiro says.

 

“You can’t trick me into sobering up by threatening to get heatstroke,” Matt says, but Shiro kind of can, since Shiro is stubborn and principled and would absolutely keel over to make Matt feel bad (and it would work), so Matt leads him over to the communal tap and matches him glass for glass. He can start to feel himself sober up anyway, and that’s a Bad Feeling to have in public, even if he’s being ~~protected~~ accompanied by a cyborg superweapon who still owes him $5 from that one time Matt loaned him vending machine money at the Garrison, which should be good for at least one ass kicking considering how many ass kickings Shiro hands out for free.

 

Matt’s seriously considering trying to sneak-clank away from Shiro back to his apartment for just a teeny bit of liquid less-anxiety when he hears Allura’s laugh somewhere past the clotheslines. When he peers across the rooftop, he sees to his horror that she’s pulled up a chair to the aunties’ tea-and-pemme table and is busy cackling away with them, which means that she’s _talking to his neighbors_ , which means that he’s going to have to talk to them too, and that’s a really bad precedent to set since they might expect him to do it on a regular basis.

 

He thinks about just pretending like he just doesn’t know her, but Shiro heads right over so Matt trails behind, and the aunties look up with an absolutely evil glint in their eyes.

 

“Did you have fun?” one of them asks.

 

“What?” Matt asks stupidly.

 

“We couldn’t see anything, but we have ears, and we could imagine,” the other one says, nodding to Shiro, as the first auntie cackles. “That one’s quite a treat.”

 

“And I’m not?” Allura asks, mock-hurt.

 

“Eh, you’ll do,” the first auntie says, grinning, and Allura toasts her with her tea glass.

 

Shiro presses a kiss to Allura’s forehead. “How’s it going?”

 

“I won a round,” Allura informs him, and then to the aunties, “Although I’m pretty sure you two just let me win to make me feel better after trouncing me the first three.”

 

“If we did, why would we tell you?” the second auntie says, rearranging the pemme tiles to their start positions. “If we told you, you wouldn’t think you’d improved and then you wouldn’t play another round.”

 

“I don’t suppose you have an interest in a career in politics, do you?” Allura asks wryly.

 

“We’ve got enough politics right here,” the first auntie says. “Thirty-six grandchildren between us. Don’t need more trouble than that.”

 

“That is quite a lot of trouble,” Allura says diplomatically, although considering the mayhem and mischief her only child apparently wreaks on a daily basis, maybe having thirty-six Alrics really does sound like more trouble to her than being one of the major stabilizing political forces in the galaxy.

 

“Are you going to stay and play a round with us this time?” auntie #2 asks Matt, and jerks her head towards the other auntie. “Better with four.”

 

“Better with more players besides you,” auntie #1 tells her.

 

Matt’s never played pemme, but he’s caught glimpses (and loud commentary) of the aunties’ never-ending game, and it looks like it wouldn’t be too hard, maybe even fun. From the board it’s clearly a strategy game, but it looks like it might be a numbers game too, something to twist and turn and solve, a game made for cursing the fates on a bad roll of the die and trash talking the other players and yelling triumphantly on a good turn. Pidge probably plays it, and if they haven’t they should, because it’s the kind of game that would have slotted right into the Holt family tabletop game bookcase, crammed into shelves so crowded that they had to stack some game boxes sideways. Mealtimes in the Holt household were loose, Shabbat only happened if one of their parents were feeling particularly Jewish that week, but Saturday Family Game Night was law, Pidge and their mom (Team Sneak) vs. Matt and their dad (Team Scheme) gathered around the dining room table until _way_ past their bedtime, because their dad’s 10PM rule went right out the window when Pandemic got involved.

 

“Actually, he wanted to talk to me about something,” Matt tells the aunties and Allura, nodding towards Shiro and frantically hoping that he’ll get the message. “So, uh, have fun, and go easy on my friend?”

 

“Oh, please don’t, I won’t improve that way,” Allura tells them warmly, her smile as charming as always, but the look she’s giving him × his current Bad Feeling = Bad Feeling² and a Bad Feeling² × temporary sobriety = Bad Feeling3 and that is a _very_ dangerous exponentiation, so Matt does his best attempt at an I’m Definitely Not a Slitheen in a Skin Suit friendly smile and practically drags Shiro away past children and laundry and neighbors starting to set out their dinners to a quieter spot near the corner, away from Allura and nosy aunties and his own stupid random glass shard memories.

 

“I didn’t say I wanted to talk to you about anything,” Shiro says as Matt clank-hiss-groans his way across the rooftop.

 

“No, but I didn’t want to talk to them,” Matt says.

 

“Any reason why not?” Shiro asks. “They seem… interesting,” which is very diplomatic of him.

 

“Like I said before, I’m peopled out,” Matt says.

 

“The new job going that well?” Shiro asks wryly, neatly dodging two of the ten million children that live in the apartment below Matt’s as they go hurtling past him.

 

Matt shrugs. “No, it’s mostly the commute,” he says, tapping his temple, and Shiro nods understandingly. “The job is going okay. Nobody stormed out or fell asleep on my first day and most of them came back for the next one, so I guess I rocked their world a little bit, or at least wobbled it.”

 

“You don’t have any trouble rocking my world,” Shiro says, smiling.

 

“I’m not rocking their world _that_ way,” Matt says, “or wobbling it. I’m not even nudging it. Their world is staying right where it is. _Don’t_ make a hot for teacher joke.”

 

“I won’t,” Shiro promises. “I never had a thing for a few authority figures anyway.”

 

“Oh, _Princess_ Allura!” Matt exclaims, clutching at his heart and fluttering his eyelashes. “Yes, Princess! Of course, Princess! Please do sweep me off my feet and straight into your arms, Princess!”

 

“Okay, I have a thing for one specific authority figure,” Shiro admits, the faintest hint of a blush staining his cheekbones. “But she only has authority over me sometimes.”

 

“Mm, but when she does,” Matt says, grinning, and Shiro chuckles in a way that makes Matt suspect Allura’s had authority over him quite recently.

 

“When you do too,” Shiro says, with that sly little answering grin that makes Matt wish they’d planned this to be one of _those_ visits.

 

“I don’t have authority over you,” Matt protests, “I have power,” but can’t quite manage to make himself say _over you_ , even considering some of the things they get up to, because it sounds so ridiculous outside of his bedroom, out here where Shiro is firm and sure and strong and Matt is… not.

 

“I know you were too busy settling in to do anything this visit, but how do you feel about having some of that power the next time we come to visit?” Shiro enquires.

 

“I feel great about that,” Matt says. “With Allura too?”

 

“We’ll have to ask,” Shiro says, and then sighs. “But I think she’ll probably be too busy.”

 

“Well, I’ll get started planning for us A.S.A.P.,” Matt promises, because lesson planning is important but so is kink planning, and this time he’s definitely going to remember to do them in the correct notebooks.

 

“I have something I want to talk to you about too,” Shiro says, which is cryptic considering normally his planning portion consists of him giving them his HELL YES/yes/maybe/no/HARD NO list and extenuating circumstances and then letting Matt and/or Allura do the rest of the logistical legwork, which Matt suspects is partly Shiro’s actual desires as a sub and partly an excuse to avoid more long meetings.

 

“A good something?” Matt asks cautiously.

 

Shiro smiles. “I hope so.”

 

“Over vidcom call?” Matt asks, and Shiro shakes head.

 

“I’ve got business that’ll take me into this star system next week, and it’s the kind of talk I’d like to have in person,” Shiro says, which is a terrifying way to put it that’s definitely going to inspire many a panic attack and many a blackout night between now and then — but Matt’s not going to tell Shiro any of that, because Shiro already has the fate of the galaxy to worry about and he doesn’t need to worry about the fate of Matt.

 

“Sounds good,” Matt says.

 

They reach their corner, and Shiro immediately sits down on the ground so he can pull Matt into his arms, settling warm and solid against his back. They still can’t kiss standing up or hug from the front or have Shiro even slightly above him in bed without Matt instantly dropping into a sick whirl of terror and memory, the man he ~~cares ab~~ knows suddenly replaced by some strange, violent monster wearing his skin, but they’ve discovered that he _can_ sit with Shiro behind him.

 

With anyone else this would be instant heart-pounding fight-or-flight, but Matt knows Shiro, his sound and scent and shape of his body, the pattern of his breath and the way he always tucks his chin over Matt’s shoulder, and for once, Shiro is the safe place, Shiro can’t look like or do or be anything that would make Matt afraid.

 

“Have you talked to Pidge lately?” Shiro mumbles into Matt’s hair.

 

“No,” Matt says. “Did they say something about me to you?”

 

“Team Voltron don’t know that Allura and I re-established contact with you” — Matt grins and elbows him: “ _contact_ ” — “so no,” Shiro says, then quieter: “Other than the usual yelling every time you go off the grid and leave them in the dark again, they don’t really talk about you much anymore.”

 

“Makes sense,” Matt says, idly tracing the heartline of the hand Shiro has wrapped around his waist. “They’re busy.”

 

“But they at least know you’re here, though, right?” Shiro asks. “You’ve told them where you are?”

 

“They knew I was moving here,” Matt says. “I told them before the… you know. The fight.”

 

“You mean the biggest fight,” Shiro says, and Matt laughs humorlessly.

 

“Yeah, fair,” he says. “Have to distinguish it from all the others.”

 

“The biggest fight recently,” Shiro adds.

 

“Look, Shiro, not today, okay?” Matt says, squeezing his hand. “I see you once every few weeks. I don’t want to waste today fighting about another fight.”

 

“You’re much closer to us here than when you were on that moon,” Shiro insists. “We’ll be able to visit more often now — once every ten to fourteen days. Like I said, I’ll come next week.”

 

“I don’t want to waste today fighting about that either,” Matt says.

 

“Then how do you want to waste today?” Shiro asks, annoyed.

 

“Just by being with you,” Matt says honestly. “And Allura too, if she can drag herself away from the pemme table.”

 

“Even odds on that one,” Shiro says. “And I have a feeling we’re picking up a game set before we leave for the Castle.”

 

“Good,” Matt says. “Get Pidge to play with her. They’ll love it.”

 

Shiro sighs into his hair but doesn’t comment. The sun is well below the horizon now, the last streaks of red-purple edging out into true blue-black night with the lights of the vast city flickering on before them, and the air is cooler, enough for Matt to belatedly realize that the heat radiating off his body isn’t his natural aura of sexiness or the warm satisfaction of having Shiro and Allura to himself for an entire evening but the beginnings of a fantastic sunburn. Allura is going to laugh hysterically at him tomorrow morning when he wakes up bright red since Holts are delicate creatures with about as much melanin as naked mole rats. Hopefully the sunburn will at least come with new freckles in some novel places. “Kiss Every Freckle” means _every_ freckle.

 

“You’re staying until tomorrow afternoon, right?” Matt asks, and Shiro nods. “Good. Thanks to all our awesome roof sex, I’m going to be a lobster tomorrow. Defend me from Allura and her trollishness.”

 

“I’ll do my best,” Shiro promises, and he really will, because Shiro is a good man, a kind man, the sort of man who trekked to a strange city and sat in a traffic jam and got chased out of an apartment by a jealous lizard just so he and Allura could trade their big, comfortable bed on the Castle for a flat, lumpy communal sex mattress on a roof.

 

Shiro + Allura (± other partners) = (a life together) traded for {[(Shiro + Allura) (± other partners) - X] + Z} + (Matt + his baggage) = (wh)Y. Matt doesn’t even know where to begin solving this particular equation, which is a good sign that he’s overdue for imbibing enough drinks that he stops trying.

 

“Do you want anything from the apartment?” Matt asks him.

 

“You mean do I want anything non-alcoholic?” Shiro asks pointedly.

 

“I’m happy to get you booze too,” Matt offers, but Shiro scowls and shakes his head.

 

“Just… something cold,” he says, and so Matt awkwardly and painfully hauls himself up from the floor and over across the rooftop, resolutely not looking behind him at Shiro and Shiro’s judgement the entire way. He doesn’t have much in his apartment besides his garden, his sink, his shelf of bitter rotgut, and the sparse amount of food he could make himself spent money on, but he plucks a handful of bittergrass stalks and sweet spiceleaf and tea leaves from his garden, smashes them up at the bottom of his lopsided pitcher, adds water and stirs, and awkwardly snags three chipped cups and his jar of rotgut on the way out the door.

 

Allura’s there with Shiro when he gets back, the two of them talking quietly, but they look up when Matt approaches and there’s no anger in Allura’s gaze at his jar of rotgut, just resignation, so Matt’s Bad Feeling is still to the power of two rather than three and soon it’ll be to the power of nothing at all. He settles back down against Shiro and offers them the pitcher and then the jar; Shiro frowns, but Allura sighs and half-smiles, weary and amused, and tips a little of the rotgut into her tea mash. Matt clinks cups with her, grinning.

 

“This isn’t indicative of my overall approval,” Allura warns him.

 

“Just a few drinks between sex friends,” Matt says happily. “No moral judgement required.”

 

“A little bit required,” Shiro mutters, mostly into Matt’s shoulder blade.

 

“No fights tonight,” Matt reminds him. “Just friendly drinks, funny stories from you two, food from me, and an adequate mattress waiting for us all at the end.”

 

“And a lizard,” Shiro grumbles.

 

“Well, you could get too plastered to care,” Matt offers. “That always works for me.”

 

“Debatable,” Shiro says, and Matt tries to ignore it with Shiro hugs him a little tighter, like Shiro’s decided that he can squeeze all the trauma out of him like juice from a mealy grapefruit.

 

“No fights,” Matt murmurs, and Shiro subsides, sighing into Matt’s hair.

 

They’ve still got food and an adequate mattress (and probably a Cat crate) and the rest of the night to go. But Matt’s memory only manages to salvage so many things from the general flotsam and drek of his days, and this is this part of today that he wants to hold onto as long as he can: safe in Shiro’s arms with Allura cuddled up against his side, watching the ocean of lights before them with the sky dark and unfathomable above them, like he doesn’t know what horrors lurk beyond it; like he’s finally found somewhere where the ships won’t swoop down, where there won’t be screaming and blaster fire in the streets; like he’s finally found somewhere where can at least pretend that his war is over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 CWs: Mentions of panic attacks, hyper vigilance, nightmares, and flashbacks; explicit dissociative episode; explicit alcoholism; references to past graphic violence; disability-related dysphoria; brief non-graphic references to animal harm.


	2. Edb (Dry Season)

To Matt’s total lack of surprise, Shiro doesn’t make it out to Quuduzh next week, or the one after that. He and Allura have spent the last month under enough pressure to squeeze ammonia out of nitrogen, desperately trying to politics their way out of a splinter state situation in Shon Mir, the central planet of one of their main allied systems, and from his vidcom calls with Allura, Matt gathers that the peacemakers are running out of options to solve the conflict before it descends into an outright civil war.

 

But the plot thickens! because according to Allura’s intelligence network, Lotor is probably sending in saboteurs as well, keeping Team Voltron tied up in one place trying to stop their allies from tearing each other into bloody little pieces while he blasts his way through other allies four systems over.

 

Matt honestly doesn’t know why anyone is ever surprised at anything Lotor does, no matter how brutal or sneaky. The plot always thickens with Lotor. Lotor is the cornstarch of galactic politics, and underestimating him in any way is a gravy mistake.

 

At least it’s probably not going to turn into a Mnenmus situation. Matt doesn’t know all the details and doesn’t want to, but it feels wrong — the Preet and Shon Min will happily murder each other all to death without Lotor even sending a single cruiser and the only militarily useful things about Shon Min are its oodles of cash and massive navy, both of which would effectively be neutralized should civil war break out.

 

There’s no reason for him to attack directly and no reason for Voltron to be there if he did, no desperate dogfight in the atmosphere while the planet burns below them and dead ships leaking frozen bodies slam into any ship unlucky enough to get in their way, Lions blasting through the worst parts of the battle to buy time for even one more Alliance ship to escape the slaughter, one more shuttle packed with frightened civilians, and some of Voltron’s allies are still screaming for their heads because they left thousands of their people behind anyway, like Voltron was supposed to swoop in and save the day when the Mnenmus system couldn’t even be fucked to staff their own outer defenses, how could Voltron have saved _everyone_ when their shields were at 4% and Pidge barely made the jump ahead of the ion cannon, seconds away from getting blasted into a spray of atoms, and Matt didn’t know any of that because he was in his stupid fucking goat cottage with a broken radio and he spent that week bitching into a bottle about the goat that kept sneaking over to his hill to eat his laundry.

 

In conclusion, Matt doesn’t think they’re looking at Mnenmus 2: Electric Boogaloo and neither does Allura, so that’s that and he can stop having nightmares about it, Right Now.

 

If he _is_ doomed to have nightmares about Mnenmus, why can’t they something like accidentally getting thrust into the middle of battle naked? He’s actually done that before, and the worst thing that happened was more scrapes than usual and a lot of flopping around downtown. (Lesson learned: don’t take your pants off to have sex in Galra-controlled territory, even if you’d been told that the village who’s hiding you definitely won’t rat you out.)

 

Take note, brain! The only naked flashbacks you’re allowed to have are the ones where you’re getting shot at.

 

ANYWAYS, despite what _certain parts_ of his anatomy — like that annoying lump of muscle jittering around in his ribcage — think, Shiro’s state of not-visiting isn’t really a problem. His life is pretty problem-free at the moment, actually! He has food and SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS, his door locks, his legs mostly work, his garden’s thriving, and nobody’s trying to murder him. 5/5. The only things in his life right now that might even be in the same genus as _Problem problematicus_ are

 

a) Being professional is seriously cutting into his drinking time

b) Shiro

c) Pidge

d) Astrophysics Levels 1, 2, and 3 (which he’s supposed to be teaching)

e) …??????

 

a) is the sacrifice one makes to achieve the aforementioned 5/5, so he’ll just have to deal, mostly in the evenings and on the weekends. b) and c) do not exist. d) is… well, it might not be in the same genus as _Problem problematicus,_ but there are some definite behavioral similarities.

 

He used to do this work in actual life-or-death situations, not just life-or-getting-fired, decoding transmission after transmission until his personhood dissolved into the numbers and he became something pure and purposeful, a Bombe machine for righteousness, and food and sleep were just unpleasant reminders that his brain was housed in a body that needed those things.

 

He was one of the best — for a while, at least — and hypothetically, that should mean that he’s more than qualified to teach the next generation of codebreakers and code-writers and people who saw his class added to the schedule and thought it looked interesting, but he’s spent the last two weeks pinballing from seal clapping whenever one of his students gets really excited about something and screaming internally at the idea that they’re depending on him for anything at all, even if it’s just an interesting afternoon twice a week and a pass/fail at the end of the year because Quuduzh City University doesn’t believe in letter grades, and he’s already planning on passing all of them, boom, done, you’re welcome, guys.

 

It’s not that he’s stupid. He’s probably still even a genius, for whatever the fuck that’s worth. It’s not that he doesn’t have things to teach them, either. If he were more honest, he’d rename his class ASTROPHYSICS FOR BEGINNERS AND EPISTEMOLOGICAL ARCHEOLOGY FOR YOUR PROFESSOR, because if there’s one thing frantically scribbling out tomorrow’s lesson plans at 5am has taught him, it’s that his handwriting is fucking awful, and also, surprisingly, he has more knowledge in his head than he realized, even if it’s all slashed up and he has to go sloshing through the booze to dig some of it out.

 

But it comes out in dribs and babbles, staring at the wall for ten minutes searching for a single word while his students fidget and whisper, assigning them ciphers that he can’t solve because his mind goes on lunch break halfway through the sequence. He knows his shit, but sometimes it feels like Cat would be better at laying it all out than he is. Maybe he could try to sneak her onto the payroll as his T.A.

 

(Actually, maybe he should ask for a real T.A.? It would probably make this job a lot easier, especially if they were interested and halfway knowledgeable in this field, someone he could bounce ideas off of and see what sticks — but he’d have to interact with them on a regular basis, and the idea of pretending for more than a few hours a week that he’s a competent educator and not a walking dumpster fire is exhausting just to think about, so he’ll just learn to manage this on his own. He’s good at that.)

 

Whatever comprises item e), however, is… curious. (And curioser!) It creeps up in his more sober moments, this dull grey skittering on the edges of all his thoughts, and by week 3.5 of the new job he starts wondering if he should go to one of the municipal free clinics to get checked out, and it isn’t until week 4 that he groans himself awake one morning and realizes what he feels is _boredom_.

 

He spent a long time being too busy surviving to have feelings, every waking minute and too many half-asleep ones devoted to the rebel cause and then later to the cause of food and good enough health and somewhere nominally safe to sleep, and eventually to the cause of fixing enough broken farming shit to afford poor man’s time travel (i.e. blackouts).

 

But he has food now, and a safe place to sleep, and he saves the blackouts for the weekends when he doesn’t have a class the next day, and Shiro isn’t here like he promised he would be, and Matt plans his lessons and takes care of his garden and vidcoms with Allura and plows through the stack of books that he got from the university library, and for some unfathomable reason, that isn’t enough. 

He is _definitely_ not doing the last one, but it still gives him pause, maybe even an idea — and he sets aside the list, digs his battered datapad out from underneath all the notebooks and books and random shit on his kitchen table, and fires up the web browser.

 

SEARCH: pemme  
SEARCH: what is pemme  
SEARCH: how to play pemme  
SEARCH: online live pemme games multiplayer open new player;  LOCATION: Quuduzh (City), Azbeb, N3

NEW PLAYER USERNAME: schemethedream  
PASSWORD: catlizard

GROUP #483 “PORTBRIDGE CIRCLE (THE GOOD ONE)”  
GAME #5  
ROUNDS #1-3 COMPLETE  
ROUND 4 OPEN  
CURRENT PLAYERS: 6  
PLAYER SLOTS OPEN: 2  
DESCRIPTION: We’re an inclusive group based in the Portbridge neighborhood of the 11th district in Quuduzh (galactic capital of every fried food you could think of! also art and culture and stuff), not to be confused with the other Portbridge Circle group because they’re all xenophobic shitheads. We meet in person once every two weeks (send a message ptau_demi for details) but we’re fine with people playing remotely if they can’t make it in-person to the meets. All experience levels welcome, but having players drop in and out is really disruptive so you have to commit to at least ten rounds if you want to play.

JOIN GAME?  
> YES.

 

*

 

“So I wanted to talk about you beating me,” Shiro says.

 

Matt flicks one of the annoying-but-harmless beetles off the biggest ripe pod on his beanstalks before snapping the pod off and adding it to his shucking bowl — too bad that the beanstalks aren’t doing as well as he thought they would but the sun in Quuduzh is pretty brutal, maybe he should plant some broad-leafed vegetable to shade the roots? in any case, he’s got enough ripe pods to cook what he wants for Shiro today — and tosses another beetle to Cat, who snaps it up with a crunch. “At quizbowl? Pemme? Life?”

 

“No, before sex,” Shiro says. “As a kink thing.”

 

Matt freezes.

 

“...Oh,” he says.

 

Shon Mir is still simmering away, and it’s been three weeks since Shiro and Allura’s last visit to Quuduzh, long enough that Matt wondered if he’d see either of them for months, and long enough that he’d mostly stopped worrying about Shiro’s cryptic Talk.

 

Then Shiro vidcommed him yesterday to say that he was coming and then actually did. It’s been a cozy afternoon, makeouts and manga discussions/arguments — Shiro is a secret dork! \°(❛o❛)°/ who’d been a lonely child with parental pressure and a secret flashlight instead of friends (｡•́︿•̀｡) — and now he’s lazing in Matt’s bed, watching Matt putter around his garden with the smile that makes the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle up (smile #8 — one of Matt’s favorites).

 

“And only if you’re actually interested,” Shiro continues. “Obviously you don’t have to answer right away; you don’t even have to answer this visit. I just wanted to put it out there.”

 

“Um. Maybe?” Matt tries, even though it feels like a lightning bolt should come crackling down from the sky to cook him extra-crispy just for thinking about it, never mind saying it, especially never mind the little part of him that whispers _yes_. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

 

“Yes, sort of, but there are some… logistical challenges,” Shiro says. “I need to be able to see you. If I couldn’t tell who it was, it could get ugly.”

 

“Good call. I don’t want to get hemisected,” Matt says. “You would be okay even if you could see me? I wouldn’t think either one of us have good associations with that kind of thing.”

 

“I think so,” Shiro says. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

 

Matt squints at him. “Thinking or _thinking_? Is that what you’ve been doing during all those meetings?”

 

“Both,” Shiro says, with a sly little grin. “And no comment.”

 

“I hope there aren’t any telepaths there,” Matt says. “And you want this… why?”

 

“Because I do,” Shiro says simply. “And this isn’t Allura’s thing.”

 

 _But it is yours_ , Shiro doesn’t say, but Matt hears it anyway.

 

“I’ll think about it,” he tells Shiro.

 

“Think or _think_?” Shiro asks, grinning.

 

“Also no comment,” Matt says, although there’s going to be a whole lot of the first kind before he even goes near the second. “But definitely not this time. Probably not the next time either.”

 

“It’s okay if it never happens,” Shiro says, as gentle and non-judgemental as always, like he didn’t just ask if Matt would derive sexual pleasure from being physically violent towards him — and knowing Shiro, not the light-tap-ow kind of violence.

 

“I’m not saying no,” Matt blurts out, and then immediately wonders why he didn’t. “Just that I have to think about it.”

 

“Okay,” Shiro says. “Want help with the beans?”

 

“...Uh, no, I got these covered,” Matt says. “Can you get started with the other vegetables?”

 

“Sure, but wash your hands after you deal with those peppers,” Shiro reminds him. “Twice,” and fine, okay, that’s happened, mea super culpa — although actually, that could be kind of fun under the right circumstances, someone has to have made some sort of ointment…

 

“Had another kink eureka?” Shiro enquires dryly after Matt scrabbles for the Kink Notebook (K.N.) specifically decorated so he doesn’t get it confused with lesson planning (or worse, his students’ papers). Allura bought it, so the cover is bright blue and glittery, but graph paper at Matt’s insistence. They’ve had a lot of fun with that notebook, long distance and when she visits. Sometimes they even manage to sketch out plans in it without getting distracted by the images that those plans conjure up!

 

“Not a kink eureka, just a kink hmm,” Matt explains. “Another one for the ??? list.”

 

“I like the ??? list,” Shiro says, carefully cutting up all the vegetables into perfect cubes while Matt more or less pops all the beans out into the bowl, sneaking the ones that drop on the floor back in when Shiro’s not looking. “You two get creative.”

 

“You could add ???s too,” Matt reminds him. “It’s a communal notebook. Well. It’s a us-three notebook. It’s not the aunties’ notebook too.”

 

“I just did,” Shiro says.

 

“...Okay, fair,” Matt says as he hauls the pots over to the stove, turning them both to medium heat. “You could add other ones.”

 

“You two are always telling me to take initiative,” Shiro reminds him.

 

“Yeah, I just didn’t think this was the initiative you’d take,” Matt admits. “I would have thought that this was the exact opposite of what you’d take.”

 

“If it’s bothering you —” Shiro starts.

 

“I’m not bothered, I’m thinking about it,” Matt says. “With my mouth. Out loud.”

 

Shiro smiles, passing him with the bowl of vegetables, and he’s far enough away that when he reaches out and lightly taps at Matt’s chin, it’s just a fond gesture, one of the many ways they’ve learned to touch each other avoiding the ugly snarl of history between them.

 

“I’d offer to help you think with _my_ mouth, but that’s not the kind of thinking you’re doing,” Shiro says.

 

“Tomorrow,” Matt promises, and Shiro grins.

 

After nearly a year and a half, there’s a predictability to Shiro and Allura’s visits, a familiar melody in different tempos. (Thanks, marching band and Musicology 201!) She may do a good adagio for the rest of the galaxy, but a free range Allura is allegro at her weariest, and Matt found himself playing unwilling tour guide — or “man who sits on a big rock and shouts geological/biological context at her while she explores the moors on her own” — on his grey moon way more than he’s sure he ever agreed to do; who knows what parts of the city she’ll force him to drag her to now that he lives somewhere that’s not mostly inhabited by monochromatic grass. Allura, in short, makes him wish he did more (any) cardio.

 

Shiro, Matt thinks as he watches Shiro lay out the chipped bowls with something far too close to ceremony, is adagietto. Never hard to play him, no daunting score; Matt knows exactly the right keys to press to make the song that he wants emerge. _Tomorrow_. Better warm up those playing fingers. But for tonight, there’s the rest of the melody, food and sleep and — ooh, right, that character sheet thing that he was supposed to do last week!

 

Food comes first, _of course_ — small, measured bites while Shiro wolfs down the flatbread Matt dumped on his plate in three seconds flat and then spends the rest of the meal trying to buy Cat’s affection by feeding her little scraps of meat from the pot while Matt tries not to cringe at Shiro wasting human-edible food on an animal who can feed herself perfectly well.

 

Cat wanders off the minute it becomes clear that Shiro’s run out of things to feed her, though, so it’s just him and Shiro, full and sleepy and heat-lazy even though he’s made Shiro drink about ten cups of water during this visit (and snuck a few loooong swigs of not-water himself when Shiro was pretending not to notice wasn’t looking). The sunset city is starting to cool down, but it’s still too hot to have the stove going for no reason, so Matt prods Shiro into dealing with leftovers and stops him from throwing out the ‘gross bits’ — “They’ll be for Cat!” Matt protests (no they won’t) — while he plops into his bed/nest and fumbles through the ten thousand (okay, 47) open tabs on his datapad until he gets to the correct fillable form.

 

“Is that for work?” Shiro asks, sliding into bed behind Matt so he can peer over Matt’s shoulder.

 

“It’s a pemme character sheet,” Matt explains. “I was bored, so I’m remotely playing a game.”

 

“With a computer?” Shiro asks. “Why do you need a character sheet?”

 

“No, with real people,” Matt says. “I need a character sheet because it’s part RPG — like D&D, but the game structure is different. It’s mostly a cooperative stop-the-spread, but with special abilities and secret victory conditions for the different characters, so sort of… mutant D&D and Pandemic and Diplomacy and a little bit of Go? And it’s got dice but they’re simpler and there’s cards and a set map board based on Azbeb, yay gaming out real world politics!, and there’s no GM, you play against the game along with the rest of the players, except you’re also playing against other players to complete your victory objective for the end of the game, but apparently you usually do that by secretly or publicly allying with other players — or publicly allying with some players but secretly allying with others — so you’re playing with and against other players on every round but in order to win the game you also have to all work together to complete all the round objectives or else you all die.”

 

“...I understood the Go part of that,” Shiro says. “I’ve played Go.”

 

“I downloaded the rulebook if you want to read it,” Matt offers.

 

“No, I’m okay,” Shiro says.

 

“Do you want to name my character?” Matt asks.

 

“Don’t you want to be the one to name them?” Shiro asks.

 

“I can’t think of any ideas,” Matt admits. “And I’m not going to use my name, that would be weird.”

 

“Do you want to play a male character?” Shiro asks.

 

Matt shrugs. “I don’t care.”

 

Shiro thinks for a moment, then reaches for Matt’s datapad.

 

 

 

 “That’s lazy,” Matt comments as he scrolls through the list of available skills.

 

“You didn’t ask for long,” Shiro says. “But it’s not lazy.”

 

Matt pauses, then looks at the name again and laughs in delight. “You made my name a _pun_.”

 

“I thought you’d like it,” Shiro says. “Not that your intelligence is artificial.”

“Mushroom knowledge,” Matt explains.

 

“Foraging for food?” Shiro guesses.

 

“Food, and poison, and tinder, and maybe medicine,” Matt says. “Also useful if anyone needs to trip balls.”

 

“Do you even know anything about mushrooms?” Shiro asks.

 

“Look, this type of game isn’t supposed to be 100% realistic,” Matt says. 

 

“The first one is just a random draw,” Matt tells him. “Makes it more interesting, I guess, because it doesn’t have much to do with my character and the real Bebduzh is a glorified fishing village with waste management issues, but I’ll probably just choose the second option anyway.”

 

“Are you sure?” Shiro asks.

 

“It’s easier to win that way,” Matt says. Shiro makes raises an eyebrow. “Here, I get 30 available points, but I get to decide how to assign them.”

 

“That’s an interesting spread,” Shiro comments. “Unless that three is a five?”

 

“No, it’s a 3, but I can pick up knowledge as I go and I just need to be healthy enough to stay alive,” Matt explains. “I won’t be able to do as many things or move as fast, but the other players can carry my weight for round objectives.”

 

“I’m just going to leave those blank,” Matt says. “And I don’t get any additional skills or resources before I play.”

 

“So all they know is that you’re a smart, tough woman with a bad constitution and no library card,” Shiro says.

 

“Exactly!” Matt says. “That’s all they need to know, and that’s all I need to play.”

 

He still hesitates over submitting his character sheet later that night, though, restlessly flipping between the rest of the group’s sheets while the gentle yellow glow of his datapad illuminates the line of Shiro’s shoulder as he sleeps beside Matt, face shoved against Matt’s hip and arm draped over Matt’s left leg, because Shiro cycles between twitchy insomnia, loud and sometimes terrifyingly violent nightmares, and baby monkey. The other sheets aren’t that odd — a few interesting stat spreads and random combinations of skills (piloting and nutrition???) — but compared to them Matt’s sheet looks aggressively blank, a cipher with no key, the wrong side of a two-way mirror, the kind of silence that would tell him that he needed to get away before that stone faced cracked to reveal whatever violence beneath.

 

He thinks for a moment, then adds a few lines. 

 

 

 

*

 

Unfortunately, part of having secret sex-times with the Black Paladin of Voltron and Princess Allura of the (Former) Altean Empire is that they’re secret and Matt can’t put them down on his classroom scheduling request form, so he’s off to work the next morning even though Shiro’s here until the morning after and the thought of wasting any part of a Shiro Visit bothers Matt almost as much as the icepick headache in his right eye socket, courtesy of the loooong swigs of not-water over the last night (and a few more after Shiro and his judgmentalness fell asleep, because for once Shiro was sleeping peacefully and Matt didn’t want to wake him with a sobbing nightmare).

 

He’s pretty sure that he’s supposed to be getting the class to think dynamically about mathematical models of the gravity of binary black holes, but it takes a good fifteen-minute tangent about wormholes and a lot of blank stares before one of his students (Eeta? Eeba? Eena?) to tentatively remind him that he hasn’t even covered the basics of binary black holes yet, which is when Matt realizes that he’s jumped the gun, _again_ , and brought the wrong lesson plan to class, _again_.

 

At least a Caesar cipher is something he could teach in his sleep, which is kind of what he’s doing this morning (maybe every morning. maybe every day), but he clanks straight to the cluster of food vendors in the broad university courtyard right after class to get an enormous cup of sludgy greenish tea from the dingy cheap stand and down it right there anyway, because he and Shiro have Plans this evening, and also the tea might help him remember what the lesson plan was for his upcoming afternoon class.

 

(Still not going to ask for a real T.A. Maybe he could get a T.A. that’s an A.I.?)

 

He finds his notes on the afternoon lesson plan in his datapad files, and what he doesn’t find he improvises — only two of his students (total!) have left his classes so far, even with him as their professor???, so maybe his middle-school self would have had a shot at the Second City after all — and then clunks off to spend the ¾ hour between now and his bus home cloistered in the library reading room, pouring over the pages he _did_ remember to scan from tonight’s pages of the Kink Notebook and making notes as necessary.

  
Despite what Shiro (fondly?) says, Matt’s not _that_ anal-retentive about getting kinky. (Although like Shiro has any room to complain about anyone being anal anything.) His mind just doesn’t hold onto things as well as it should anymore — names, dates, directions, which are the right lesson plans for which class, if he needs to shower, who he’s talking to, what he was just talking about, where he is, how long he’s been here, and the alcohol only makes it worse (and better!!!), but he’s in a position to actually care about remembering things now, so he’s started keeping lists for himself, tacked up around his apartment and scrawled in a notebook that half the time he then loses track of in all the other notebooks, lists as stupid as

 

or having to look up (every day!)

  

The lists in the K.N. are _much_ more interesting — that’s where the planning for kinky sex happens!!! :D — but it’s still frustrating that they’re even necessary, and Matt has no idea how Shiro can (much less _want_ to!) put his body and his mind at the mercy of someone whose memory is just a black hole with the random piece of floating debris.

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:08) anything u want to know abt the plan fr tonite? other than the usual?

 **the white knight:** (16:11) Is it going to leave visible marks?

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:11) nowhere a politician would see them

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:12) n dont worry there wont b a multiple choice section

 **the white knight:** (16:14) Then no, I don’t want to know anything else.

 **the white knight:** (16:14) And no, no relevant injuries.

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:14) relevant????

 **the white knight:** (16:15) My right shoulder has been bothering me. I think I pulled something.

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:15) that could b relevant. u dont know what im planning to do, so any injury could b relevant.

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:15) bothering you how

 **the white knight:** (16:16) Just some twinges. But it holds my weight.

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:16) functionally or comfortably?

 **the white knight:** (16:16) Comfortably.

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:16)  >.> shirogane...

 **the white knight:** (16:20) Alright, functionally.

 

Takashi Shirogane: great at telling his partner and sex friends all the things he wants to do with them and for them, generally good at telling them all the ways his brain could fuck those up, bad at accepting even the possibility that his body might impose some limitations on anything he does, much less that those limitations actually matter. Matt turns to page 47 of the KN to revise.

He’s still undecided if he wants an orgasm (or at least a spirited try) at the end of this — Shiro’s definitely not getting one this time, and his dick isn’t really the object of all this, but it can be a nice bit of punctuation at the end.

  

 

Matt would never complain about putting any part of him in Shiro (well, maybe some parts) but really, the fisting part is going to be Shiro’s reward for being good, even though Matt personally doesn’t subscribe to Shiro’s good/bad thought process (as important to Shiro as Matt recognizes it is) and Shiro _always_ gets rewarded, because this isn’t something that Shiro can fail at, and Matt would never deny Shiro something for not being good _enough_ — it’s always on Shiro’s HELL YES list, even when it definitely shouldn’t be, like the time Allura had to point out that he’d been _thrown out of a cruiser_ and broken a (reinforced!) rib and ruptured his jejunum and then ignored the pain (which turned out to be internal bleeding) and subsequently got systemic sepsis, and it doesn’t matter if you’ve spent the last two weeks in a healing pod, Shiro, we’re still not doing anything involving your insides, _quiznak_.

 

As for the rest of tonight’s Plan… well. Shiro says he likes it.

 

The strand of hair Matt leaves between his the door and the doorframe is gone when he gets back to his apartment and there’s a tiny black squiggle chalked on the door handle, so Shiro’s already back. He probably did take the opportunity to explore the city a little like he said he would, bought something kitschy for Allura and something without sharp edges or small pieces for Alric, but Shiro’s an introvert who spends 30-35% of his time interacting with his friends and family and another 50-65% interacting with strangers who universally want something difficult and important from him, so on the rare days he doesn’t _have_ to do anything he peoples out even faster than Matt. Sometimes he just spends the whole day sleeping, which would be worrying for a normal person, but Shiro almost never lets himself be tired and he’s tired on so many levels, so Matt just makes sure he has enough pillows (2-3 depending on fluffiness).

 

Unsurprisingly, Shiro’s already in bed when Matt comes into the apartment, the long unmarked lines of him twisted up in the sheets like a promise, and there’s the familiar flash of desire that Matt always gets when he sees Shiro for the first time on a Plans day — and just like every time he almost says fuck it and goes ahead right there, but Plans require a clear head and a rested body and for him to grumpily restrict himself to 1 to 2 drinks at dinner (which is only even possible in the first place because Shiro and/or Allura watch him like hawks when they have Plans), because a teeny-bit-sloshy decision-making is not great but a panic attack in the middle is way worse.

 

He would feel a lot guiltier about that if he wasn’t the least R.A.C.K. of all of them. Risk Aware of Super-Strength, Alcoholism, Panic Attacks, PTSD, Violent PTSD, and Plasma-Option Bionic Arm Consensual Kink. R.A.S-S.A.P.A.P.V.P.P-O.B.A.C.K. That’s their acronym. Maybe he should write it on the Notebook.

 

Instead of immediately jumping into his Plan, Matt works his way through leftover stew while Shiro munches through another stack of flatbread, checks his list, puts tomorrow’s correct lesson plans into his work bag, digs around in his sex box to make sure that Cat didn’t eat or drag off any of the things he needs for tonight (it _is_ the green bottle!), and then goes back to where Shiro is back in bed, flipping through one of Matt’s library books.

 

Matt can’t quite make himself say _Cuddle time!_ even though that’s exactly what this part is; he’s done all sorts of things to Shiro, but putting that in words sounds so much more… terrifying perverse. But Shiro just rolls back to give him smile #8 ( _still_ Matt’s favorite) and welcomes him down, Matt settling into the sheets that still smell a little like both of them, and Shiro curls around his back, warm and solid. (One the great thing about having a bionic arm: doesn’t go numb if Matt’s got his head laid on it. One bad thing about having a metal arm: it feels like Matt’s snuggling up to a metal pole.) Shiro and Allura have their pregame routine, there’s another for the three of them, and then Matt and Shiro have theirs, a calm place to start from when the stakes are so high.

 

They give themselves a good 20 minutes of cuddle calm time before Matt sits up and stretches, vertebrae popping, and then looks down at Shiro for the last part of their routine.

 

“Green for go, yellow for stop and wait, safeword for hard no,” Matt confirms, and Shiro nods.

 

“Knock twice for yes, one snap for stop and wait, three snaps for hard no stop,” Shiro says, his set for when he inevitably goes nonverbal, and Matt’s lower back can’t manage a twist and bend for a kiss, so he thumbs softly at the faint scar high on Shiro’s left cheekbone instead before he gets up to bribe and trick Cat into her balcony crate while Shiro heads to the washroom for his own last preparations.

 

Mission: No Lizard Attack completed, there are things that still need to be done, but Matt’s not going to be the one to do them. Instead he just sits in the second-most comfortable chair in his apartment and breathes: long, even breaths like he’s trying to chase off a panic attack, but the thing that seeps through him with every exhale is entirely different, hard and sharp, wild calm, a dark generosity.

 

Shiro comes out of the washroom; stands far enough away from Matt that he won’t trigger him by looming over him. Shiro watches Matt watching him, and when Matt lifts his eyebrows at him, a silent question, Shiro nods.

 

“Take three of the towels folded up on that shelf and lay them out on top of each other at the end of the bed,” Matt says. “Move the chair I was sitting in at dinner to the end of the bed, facing the headboard. Take the box of gloves, the lube in the green bottle out of the sex box, the Deal With It Later bin off the table, four small towels off the shelf and put the bin on the bedside crate and the towels, lube, and gloves on the bed to the left of the chair,” and Shiro does, and then turns to Matt again.

 

“Go to the table,” Matt says. Shiro does, and the part of Matt that’s still thinking Normal Matt Thoughts tries to remember the list, he always forgets _something_ — fuck, water bottle, that’s what he forgot. (Better than forgetting the lube, at least!)

 

“Take the water bottle off the shelf above the sink, fill it with water, and put it on the—” (where?!!!)  “— bed to the le—” (lube side!) “—right side of the chair, to the left of the other, and then go back to the table,” Matt says, and Shiro does, and then Matt kicks the Matt Thoughts under the bed and turns the chair around to face Shiro and sits down.

 

“Strip,” Matt says, and Shiro does.

 

“Kneel,” Matt says, and Shiro does.

 

“Crawl to me,” Matt says, and Shiro does.

 

The Matt Thoughts never go quietly, and there’s always this moment of gut-swooping terror at the beginning, that Shiro might reach him and sit back on his heels and look up in tolerant disgust: _What are you playing at being?_ — and then Shiro reaches him and sits back on his heels at Matt’s feet, and Matt reaches down to grab Shiro’s hair and pull his head far back enough for Shiro to bare his throat and meet Matt’s eyes, and there’s only one soft question in Shiro’s face: _What do you want?_

 

 _Everything_ , Matt thinks. _I want to do everything to you._

 

“You are going to feel what I do to you,” Matt says, evenly. Command+Option+Esc Takashi Shirogane. Shiro > Shiro > Shiro > Shiro. Open. “No matter what I choose to do, how much or how little, you will not ignore it. You will not get used to it. You are going to take it, and feel it, and keep taking it, and keep feeling it, as long as I want you to, until I tell you to stop. Are you going to do this for me?”

 

“Yes,” Shiro murmurs, and Matt twists his hand in Shiro’s hair a little tighter, and Shiro’s entire body moves with it.

 

“Good,” Matt says. “Get onto the bed, on your back, facing me. Spread your legs,” and Matt settles himself between them, Shiro propped up on the pillows that Matt had prearranged there so he can see what Matt’s doing, which is half the fun and most of the satisfaction; Matt doesn’t want to do this, he wants to do this _to._

 

Matt starts small — just a quick pinch of the skin near Shiro’s right knee, thumb and forefinger, and Shiro just blinks at him.

 

Matt moves a centimeter higher up Shiro’s thigh, using his nails this time; Shiro still doesn’t react, but Matt can see the feeling start to rise up. Matt moves another centimeter up and pinches again, a little longer this time, a little harder;

 

and again;

and again;

and again;

and again;

and again;

and again;

and again;

and again;

and again;

 

and by the time he reaches halfway up Shiro’s inner thigh, Matt’s pinching hard enough that he leaves indents behind like little bite marks, and Shiro’s jolting every time Matt’s nails bite into his skin;

 

and by the time he gets to join of Shiro’s inner thigh, Matt’s pinching and twisting, rolling the tender skin back and forth between his nails hard enough to bruise, almost hard enough to draw blood, and Shiro is shaking, his legs instinctively trying to close as he fights to keep them loose and open to Matt, and then Matt gets to the skin of his sac and pinches between his thumb and forefinger and twists as hard as he can, and Shiro cries out, hand fisting in the sheet next to him.

 

“Good,” Matt says, and grins. “Good.”

 

He moves down to Shiro’s left knee, tracing the unmarked skin there for a moment while Shiro watches him, breathing slightly erratic, and then Matt starts his way up Shiro’s left thigh, as measured as before, one long inevitable line that matches the other almost perfectly, and Shiro knows exactly how much he has left to hurt, the last few and one cruel twist and —

 

“One,” Matt says, and reaches down to Shiro’s right knee, his fingers finding the faintest trace of a half-moon indent there, and then he digs his nails in and starts all over again, right on top of the line he left before.

 

He doesn’t rush. Why bother? He has time to enjoy it, and he _does_.

 

“Two,” Matt says.

 

5=5, a neat symmetry of desire, five times for five fingers. Allura had laughed when Matt had suggested it, then looked thoughtful, a little grin creeping over her face. She isn’t interested in pain — what she’d been willing to dole out before now farmed out to Matt — but he still talks over his plans with her, both because he’s squirmingly aware that Shiro far outranks him (as always) in experience and deserves a lot better than amateur fumbling, and also because Allura’s had enough time with Shiro to be allowed to push in ways that Matt still holds back from, to listen to what Shiro wants and do what Shiro wants and see how far those wants will go.

 

“Do it, but don’t tell him how many rounds it’s going to be,” Allura had advised him. “He doesn’t want to know that. He wants to know that you have him for as many rounds as _you_ want.”

 

Matt does. Easily. He’s all of 5’6” and 130lb with his metal legs included, but right now he’s bigger than his skin, bigger than this room, bigger than this city, the world sharp and clear and simple and _right_ and him standing solid at the center.

 

“Three,” Matt says, and Shiro makes a little noise that might be a sob, and Matt palms over the line of bruises starting to redden up and looks up to meet Shiro’s gaze. “You’re being so good.”

 

And he is. He is. Matt takes what he wants and Shiro lets himself be taken, Matt orders him to give and Shiro gives, Shiro never fights him ( _oh please let Shiro never want to fight him_ ), Matt orders Shiro to welcome him in and he does, he does, something passing between them with every bite of pain, a snap of electricity racing around a closed circuit, and Matt’s been inside Shiro plenty of times, he’s going to be inside Shiro _tonight_ , but he feels like he already is, the reins of Shiro’s soul wrapped tight around Matt’s fist.

 

“Four,” Matt says.

 

Objectively, what Matt’s doing doesn’t hurt much; he probably wouldn’t even feel it if he did it to himself (although that probably says more about chronic pain than his dom daring). Subjectively, from the outside it probably looks pretty stupid, and on the page it reads like something written by someone who’d just checked _A Beginner’s Guide to Kink for Couples_ out of the library for the first time, or maybe just took it to a dark corner to scribble down some notes. It’s a .075 on the Matt Holt Pain Scale, maybe a 4 or 5 on some normal person’s, and probably about a negative 36 for Shiro, who powers right through everything until bloody stabs and torn muscles and hits hard enough to stain his entire torso blue-black under his armor don’t even register anymore — but Shiro’s shaking, breathing ragged with little gasps when Matt hits particularly tender spots, because right now, the increasingly harder pinches and twists up his thighs are hurting him more than being tossed halfway across a battlefield.

 

Allura doesn’t work like Matt. She wants to own Shiro, to use his body for her pleasure and power (Matt’s like 94.8% sure that there’s a collar somewhere in their bedroom) and is content to leave his mind as it is and his body to feel how it feels, his pleasure or pain immaterial to her enjoyment.

 

Matt’s definitely not content. Matt plays mind games. Matt reaches inside Shiro’s head, twists certain knobs and pulls a few levers and plays psychological Bop It! until Shiro’s overwritten, cheat codes entered, New Subspace Level Unlocked!, dampeners disengaged and receptors wide open, because Shiro doesn’t know how to actually feel things but he wants to do what Matt tells him to do and so Matt tells him:

 

Feel this.

Feel this.

 **_Feel this_ ** _—_

 

— every screaming nerve, every gasp and twitch and shudder, every touch of my hands, every single second of pain. Let go of all the things you carry, peel away your stone skin, you don’t need it here and I don’t want it here, I want the living flesh underneath, here I want you to not be _okay_ . Hold yourself open for me. I want you, I want to hurt you, and I’m ordering you to _feel it_.

 

“Five,” Matt says. “I’m done with this part. Water.”

 

Shiro probably doesn’t need it, but he doesn’t have to make choices right now and Matt always errs on the side of hydration, so he talks Shiro through it and then through the exact rearrangement of the Shiro didn’t tell me about the shoulder in time for borrowing Allura’s sex wedge pillow formation while simply leaning back in his chair and making absolutely no move to help. For all that Allura’s infinitely more inclined towards being serviced, she’s generally a hands-on dom, guiding Shiro by touch, but Matt likes being hands-free at Shiro’s controls, distance play and voice and vulnerability and little edge of humiliation, even though Shiro’s never humiliated by anything he does in this state.

 

Shiro gets them into position and then follows himself, face-down ass-up but hopefully supported by enough of the firmer pillows that his shoulder isn’t taking his weight.

 

“If your right shoulder starts hurting in a new way or more than it does now, tell me,” Matt orders him; Shiro nods, and Matt snaps on his flamingo-pink gloves and begins, tracing lightly over Shiro’s hole with his finger and then his thumb, rubbing softly and then adding lube and doing it again, thinking about how he could jam three fingers in, maybe four — Shiro would hurt and tear and bleed and if Matt kept going it would be worse, it’s ugly but it can eventually be done (Matt _knows_ this) —

 

and Matt squirts way too much lube out of the green bottle and starts slow, careful, one finger and then eventually two, coaxing Shiro’s body open and occasionally rubbing hard at Shiro’s prostate just to amuse himself.

 

It’s slow going — the sweat starting to bead up on their skin in the slightly too-humid room and the only sounds the rustling of sheets and squish of lube and Shiro’s slow, deep breathing as he lets Matt do what he wants to him, and the thought sends a shiver of arousal through Matt’s blood. Matt has Plans but Shiro doesn’t know what they are, he could deviate, he could do _anything_ he wanted to (he can’t, actually, and doesn’t want to, but he does and he could, he could —); and Matt lets himself linger right on the edge of that feeling, every touch to Shiro’s skin a knife-edge of possibility, his muscles almost aching with the potential energy burning under his skin.

 

He’s so caught up in it that it’s almost a surprise when he eventually realizes that Shiro’s body is taking four fingers with almost no resistance, relaxed and ready, and Matt pauses, withdrawing his fingers and smiling to himself a little as Shiro immediately arches his back further, chasing whatever feeling Matt will give him.

 

“I’m going to fist you,” Matt tells him, because there’s control and surprises and then there’s _that_. “You’re going to signal me if something feels wrong, but otherwise, you’re just going to lay back and take it. Can you do that?”

 

Shiro can’t actually speak with his voice in times like these, too deep in subspace to find anything as complicated as words, but after a moment he reaches out and knocks twice against the mattress where Matt can clearly see it: _yes_.

 

“Are you ready for that?” Matt confirms.

 

_Yes._

 

“Turn over onto your back,” Matt tells him, and Shiro goes. “Legs up, hands behind your knees. Stay still.”

 

Shiro obeys ( _Shiro obeys, Shiro always obeys, Matt could do —)_ , and Matt carefully adds way more lube and tucks his thumb in and pushes, the lines at the corners of Shiro’s eyes going momentarily tight as Matt works his knuckles in ( _good, good,_ _good_ — “Good,” Matt tells him, lingers there for as long as he can without actually damaging Shiro), and then he’s in to the wrist, Shiro tight and hot around him, and Matt curls his fingers into a fist and starts to move.

 

Shiro can take a lot more than this — he’s _very_ ambitious, and he always wants more, Matt and Allura on top and around and inside him, he wants to be overwhelmed, he wants to be _had_ — but Matt has his own ambitions, and shoving his arm into Shiro up to the elbow isn’t one of them. Instead, he goes slow, shallow, the knobs of his wrist bone sliding in and out of Shiro’s body even as that potential energy burns within his own, and Matt can feel every muscle in his arm and shoulder and chest, every tendon and ligament, the power clenching around his bones —

 

Slow, steady, shallow. Reaching past Shiro’s hard muscles and metal bones into the place where he’s soft and fragile and so easy to hurt. When Matt does this with Shiro during vanilla sex-times it feels almost wondrous, a staggering gift every time, how much trust Shiro places (literally!) in Matt’s hands.

 

Right now, it feels like Matt’s due. Right now there isn’t any part of Shiro that isn’t Matt’s to use, and Shiro loves this, his eyes fluttering shut and then opening wide and wondrous every time Matt moves his fist, Matt chose to do this specifically because it makes Shiro feel good and he always wants Shiro to feel good, but right now he doesn’t really give a fuck if Shiro feels good other than the fact that _he’s_ the one who gets to decide if Shiro gets to feel good, and this isn’t a gift from Shiro, it _can’t_ be a gift from Shiro, because Shiro is the one getting it from him — and Matt knows how badly he could hurt Shiro right now if he wanted to (and a little part of him does) but he isn’t, and that’s his gift to Shiro almost more than the pleasure: restraint. Control.

 

Mercy.

 

Eventually Matt’s arm gets tired, and he pulls his hand out, slowly and carefully; Shiro makes a little noise and winces at the stretch — _Good_ , Matt thinks; “Good,” Matt says — and then Matt takes off his gloves and pushes his chair back from the bed and spreads his legs and decides that he wants that orgasm after all, because why not.

 

“Down,” Matt says, pointing at the floor between his feet. “Kneel,” and Shiro goes; “Just your mouth,” he says, and unzips his pants and rolls a condom on and gets a good grip in Shiro’s hair and goes for it.

 

It doesn’t take long tonight. Matt’s been hovering there since Shiro’s knees first hit the floor, and his orgasm roars through him barely a few minutes later, his fist tightening in Shiro’s hair so hard that there are a few dark strands clinging to his hand when he lets go, and he collapses back in his chair. He feels empty, but in a good way, like a chest tube punched into a pneumothorax he didn’t even know he had, like for once he can finally breathe —

 

— and then he reaches down as far as he dares to where Shiro is slumped at his feet, palms still flat on his thighs, and gently tips Shiro’s chin up to face him.

 

“Shiro?” Matt asks.

 

Shiro looks up, his gaze slightly unfocused, and Matt brushes his thumb over the faint scar on Shiro’s cheekbone — from the Arena, Matt knows, just luck that the blade missed his eye, or maybe it didn’t miss and Haggar replaced it, Shiro doesn’t know, no one’s ever run a DNA test on him because they’re too scared of the results — and tells him softly, “Okay, we’re done. Can you stand up?”

 

Shiro thinks for a long moment, clearly struggling with the concept of questions, but eventually he slowly nods, and Matt helps him off the floor as best he can and into bed while he quickly bundles up the towels and swipes the sex supplies into the Deal With It Later bin, dumping them all on the floor — fuck, he’s going to have to _bend over_ later to clear them up, ow, but priorities — and takes stock of his own bodily needs (hungry/thirsty/bathroom/B.A.C./misc.???) to deal with as necessary so he can focus on Priority One: Aftercare (no, good to go), climbing into bed with Shiro.

 

“Here, eat, then water,” Matt instructs him after gently cleaning him up, handing him the bowl of the sticky salt-sugar snacks and the water bottle, which Shiro works through until his shakes become pronounced enough that Matt just sets the food+H2O aside and pulls Shiro down to lay his head down in his lap, ignoring how Shiro’s weight pulls uncomfortably at his legs within their prosthesis sockets, and wraps Shiro in the lightest sheet/blanket he could find, because Shiro’s mind always thinks his body is cold now but Matt doesn’t actually want to give him heatstroke.

 

(The shakes + the expression Shiro gets afterwards, the one that says he’s floating somewhere far away — they’d scared the shit out of Matt the first few times he’d seen it, even with Allura there to assure him that it was normal for Shiro, that Shiro always comes down intensely, because whenever Matt goes somewhere far away it’s because here is not so good. These days he knows what to do, and he’s just happy for Shiro, that he has somewhere that peaceful to visit.)

 

“You did really well,” Matt tells him, stroking his hair. “Good. You did really good. You did everything perfectly,” Shiro’s magic words, “you were really good for me,” trying to press them into Shiro’s bones like fingerprints into clay.

 

It takes Shiro a while to come back from his somewhere, Matt saying his magic words the whole time, but eventually Shiro turns to look up at Matt and smile, tired but dreamy (smile #5 — another of Matt’s favorites).

 

“Hi,” Matt tells him.

 

“Hi,” Shiro murmurs.

 

“Do you need anything?” Matt asks.

 

“Just sleep,” Shiro says, soft and a little hoarse. “Are you going to stay?”

 

 _Am I going to wake up and find you passed out on the table or the washroom floor?_ Shiro doesn’t ask. _You took so much, you always take so much, will you stay with me?_

 

“Yeah,” Matt says, and gently shifts Shiro off so he can go let Cat out of her crate and use the bathroom and not drink anything but water and then shuck his prosthesis to sleep. “Of course.”

 

*

 

Matt wakes up sometime in the night, swimming up out of a blissfully silent black. He isn’t sobbing, he doesn’t have to use the bathroom, Shiro’s not shouting, Cat isn’t trying to sleep in his hair, his back and hips and legs are aching but he snuck out of bed once Shiro was asleep to R.X. himself so they’re not that bad, why he did he wake up — and then he realizes that he’s alone in bed, the mattress cool to the touch beside him and the rest of his apartment silent and still, and the panic hits like a hand around his throat.

 

He lunges for his prosthesis, trying to scramble everything on as fast as he can — fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _he doesn’t know where Shiro is_ so it doesn’t matter if he does it wrong, if it’ll hurt him, he just has to be able to walk well enough to find Shiro — but he’s still so fucking slow, and it’s been years since the accident and he’s lost so much more to this galaxy than ¾ of his legs, usually they’re the least of the things that make him wake up whimpering in pain, but he’s suddenly so fucking furious at his stupid assistant and that stupid case of anti-personnel landmines because they fucking crippled him and crippled means that he’s slow and slow could mean that he’s too late —

 

— and he sees the piece of paper on the floor next to the bed, weighed down by the coin can, and scrawled in Shiro’s familiar handwriting: 

 

It’s cooler outside when he gets up the stairs and out onto the rooftop, steadily ignoring the way his right leg is rattling painfully around in his prosthesis with every step, bone on metal. The night has done its work, bringing the breeze even if it can’t quite manage dark in this city of ten thousand lights, and when he looks to the horizon, the sky is hazy with what might be stormclouds, a rare promise of rain in the dry season.

 

Shiro’s standing at the edge of the rooftop, quiet and still. Most of the rooftop of this building has a guardrail sunk into the stone, rusty protection for the kids always thundering and screaming right above Matt’s apartment, but Shiro’s in one of the narrow gaps, looking down at the street below, his hand light on the guardrail next to him. He must have heard the door, definitely hears the clank-hiss-clank of Matt approaching him, but he doesn’t move away from his post, doesn’t turn to look at them. They’re alone up here, anyone tempted to sleep here gone refugee from the coming rain, and it’s as quiet as this city ever gets; almost peaceful.

 

“It’s only three stories,” Matt says quietly. “With your mods, all you’ll do is break your legs.”

 

“That obvious?” Shiro asks without turning around.

 

“I know you,” Matt says, and Shiro snorts humorlessly.

 

“Sometimes it feels like you and Allura are the only ones who do,” he says. “Everyone else thinks I’m brave.”

 

“The rest of Team Voltron knows too,” Matt says. “They did all the way back when I was living with you guys. And you’ve been fighting this shit for — how long?”

 

“I don’t know,” Shiro murmurs. “I don’t remember,” except Matt knows he does, sort of, because Shiro’s told him fragments when he thought Matt was too drunk to understand, let alone remember, but Matt’s been too drunk to remember his own last name but he’s not going to forget a story like _that_ , Shiro carefully laying his schoolbag on the sidewalk so someone else could use his books before walking out into the middle of the road and sitting down, quietly waiting for a car to come.

 

“You haven’t given up,” Matt insists. “That’s brave, Shiro. That’s really brave. That’s the bravest you can get.”

 

“Yet,” Shiro says quietly. “I don’t know if I’m actually going to win this one or if I’m just dragging it out longer.”

 

“Well, longer _is_ always better,” Matt tries, and dares to come up to Shiro, risking a broken bone or worse with Shiro in this kind of headspace — but Shiro just sighs and relaxes against Matt when Matt hugs him from behind, arms wrapping around his waist.

 

“Did something happen tonight?” Matt asks, even though he already knows the answer: _yes. Me._

 

“No,” Shiro says. “Nothing happened. I just woke up and —”

 

He sighs again and shrugs, and Matt nods even though Shiro can’t see him, holds onto Shiro a little tighter, trying to be comforting, trying to weigh him down. Thanks to Haggar, Shiro’s body is about 75-80% reinforced as far as they can tell, but Matt’s is 100% not, and if Shiro really wants to fall Matt still isn’t going to let him go. Shiro will break his legs and survive. Matt will break his neck.

 

“Please come back inside,” Matt says. “It’s going to rain and I didn’t put my prosthesis on right, I don’t know how long I can keep standing.”

 

“Why not?” Shiro asks, but steps away from the edge anyway, helping Matt limp back towards the access door and his apartment.

 

“You were gone,” Matt says, because this isn’t the first time he’s found Shiro in this state — or found Shiro trying to slip away to be in this state alone — and it definitely won’t be the last, and even though Shiro’s a brave man and a devoted father and he tries so hard, Matt’s thoughts whenever Shiro’s not where he’s supposed to be always jump to 1. unidentified panic; 2. Voltron; 3. Shiro’s gone to kill himself.

 

“Sorry,” Shiro says.

 

“Just wake me up next time,” Matt says, even though he knows that Shiro probably won’t, and unsurprisingly, Shiro just nods. He’s quiet as they make their way down the stairs and back into the apartment, doesn’t complain when Matt shoos him back into bed while Matt opens the windows to let a breeze in before the rain comes, deals with his prosthesis (relief!!! well, physically), and wiggles his way into bed, where Shiro’s busy staring silently into the pillow.

 

“Quack quack,” Matt tries eventually.

 

“What?” Shiro asks, looking down at the shadow puppet duck hand Matt’s poking at him with.

 

“It’s the duck of feelings and it’s coming to get you,” Matt explains, and then immediately winces — _feelings_ , fuck, _feel this_ — but Shiro smiles tiredly.

 

“Yeah, it does that sometimes,” he says.

 

“Of course it does,” Matt says. “It’s a duck. They’re mean and rapey and they chase you if you run out of bread to feed them.”

 

“Let me guess, that happened to you,” Shiro says.

 

“Pidge, actually,” Matt says. “But I was there. It was a formative experience.”

 

“You seem to have gotten over your duck-related trauma,” Shiro says, looking down meaningfully at the handshape Matt’s making, and Matt smiles encouragingly.

 

“Ducks are scary, but I wasn’t going to let them strongarm me out of great experiences,” he says.

 

“...No,” Shiro says. “Sorry, no. Not that verb.”

 

“I bet Allura could use that verb,” Matt says — there’s a reason he knows that Shiro is _ambitious_ — and Shiro looks shifty for a moment before he laughs a little and shrugs.

 

“Maybe,” he says, but he’s starting to look pretty worded-out, wittiness fading into weariness, so Matt shifts around so Shiro can cuddle into him, face tucked into Matt’s neck.

 

When the rain finally comes, he doesn’t get up to close the windows like he’d planned — just stays in bed, listening to the water drum on the balcony and the street below while Shiro sleeps restlessly beside him. I’m sorry, Matt thinks as he watches the rain pool on the floor under the windows; but it’s meaningless, just a clump of stringy vowels and consonants spat up to make him feel a little better, because if he was actually sorry then he wouldn’t do it again, and he will, because NATURE/nurture and he is one fucked-up duck.

*

 

>CHAT OPENED

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I’ve been watching your plays — you’re a very good strategist, and from your actions, I think our secret objectives are compatible. We should talk.

[schemethedream] _✓seen 20:07_

>CHAT CLOSED

 

*

 

“You didn’t break Shiro,” Allura says preemptively as soon as he answers her vidcom call.

 

“I didn’t say I did,” Matt says automatically as he hustles himself into one of the empty study cloisters in the library to take the unexpected call (although maybe it shouldn’t be that unexpected — she’s been calling at a lot of random hours lately, ten minutes plucked here and there from the Princess Duties’ clutches). “Why are you even saying I didn’t?”

 

“Matt, we share him and your handiwork is not very hard to recognize,” Allura says, looking supremely unimpressed. “Your marks are rather deliberate. And symmetrical.”

 

“It wouldn’t be fair to Shiro to just do one side,” Matt says, which is true, although it’s sort of for him too, in little claiming ways that he’s Not Thinking About today since his syllabus would be really disrupted if he gave himself alcohol poisoning. “Did he have sex with you too? That’s a lot for him in two days.”

 

“No, we were both too tired,” Allura says, sighing. “I just saw them while we were changing for bed. He was quite pleased with them, though. As was I.”

 

“Send me some back,” Matt says, and Allura nods happily. “But why are you talking about me breaking him?”

 

“He told me he came down hard,” Allura says, because she and Shiro are the kind of couple who practice open and honest communication, curse them, “and I wanted to assure you that it wasn’t your fault. It’s been a difficult time for us.”

 

“Shon Mir?” Matt asks.

 

“Mostly, but Alric has also learned how to run,” Allura says grimly. “He’s very nimble.”

 

“Wow, he learns fast, I thought he was still crawling,” Matt says, before his brain wades through his afternoon drinks to remind him that Alric’s human-speed developmental milestones are a painful subject for Allura, and she’s being nice to him so he probably shouldn’t torture her with the very real possibility that she’s going to outlive her partner _and_ their son by centuries.

 

“Yes, it seems so,” Allura says curtly. “In any case, no one has been getting much rest, and you shouldn’t blame yourself for Shiro having a bad turn.”

 

“Has he been having a lot of those lately?” Matt asks.

 

“The political situation has emotions running high,” Allura says. (Poor Castle combat practice bots, Matt thinks.) “We’ve kept up a united front in public, of course, but it’s been… less united in private.”

 

“I thought you were a fan of self-determination,” Matt says — cautiously, just in case Allura woke up this morning and decided that having principles was exhausting (it is!) and she liked the sound of Empress Allura after all (Matt does not), and she was cheerfully willing to leapfrog over her father’s peacemaking (if ultimately fruitless) legacy to continue the family tradition of horrifically terrifying imperialism (so much fruit. whole orchards, watered with a hundred species’ blood).

 

“Oh, I am,” Allura says (thank fuck), “and it should absolutely happen on Shon Mir. But not now, not when we’re just starting to recover from the attack on the Mnenmus. Shon Mir is the only wealthy ally we have with an intact and reasonably powerful navy. We can’t afford to lose that to their own civil war.”

 

“So, what — oppress some to save billions?” Matt asks, settling in to pull on his I’m a Neutral Third Party with a Moral Compass and Higher Brain Functions (Just Don’t Ask Me to Wade Into Combat Because I _Can’t_ I’m Done with That Shit) Hat.

 

“Not the language I’ve been couching it in, but yes, more or less,” Allura says, and even under the harsh washout lights of whatever spaceship she’s taking their daily vidcom call in — not the Castle, Matt notes with some concern interest — she looks greyer than usual, her colors unconsciously shifted duller, like fabric put too many times through the wash. “Not everyone sees it that way, of course. After all, how much injustice from our allies can we pretend not to see before it rots us all from the inside out?”

 

“That sounds like a direct quote,” Matt says.

 

“I’m sure you can imagine who from,” Allura says.

 

“Yeah, vividly,” Matt says. “I’m guessing there was shouting involved?”

 

“Mm, good guess,” Allura says sourly.

 

“And he wants to intervene — diplomatically?” Matt asks. “Financially?”

 

“We’re already trying to intervene diplomatically, and frankly, Shon Mir is the one who could financially intervene with _us_ ,” Allura says, frustrated. “He wants to intervene militarily. More accurately, he wants to arm the rebels and fly Black over to personally level the palace of government — and I share those sentiments, I would _love_ to bury them, but _I_ know how to put aside my personal feelings in these situations. It’s been twenty years — which I’ve been informed is a very long time for a human — and he _still_ can’t manage it.”

 

“He wasn’t raised royalty,” Matt reminds her, because Shiro is a symbol of freedom and resistance throughout the galaxy, the slave soldier who broke his chains and rose up with the princess of old to lead a rebellion that toppled the empire that tried to make him their Champion, and he totally lives up to the hype, and sometimes Allura forgets that he’s just some random boy from Aioi who moved to Arizona because he wanted to be an astronaut.

 

“Clearly,” Allura snaps, but then she sighs. “...Although maybe that’s a good thing. He was right to ask. And I didn’t have an answer.”

 

“Of course you didn’t,” Matt says, suddenly annoyed on her behalf. “And underneath all the shouting, I bet he doesn’t either. He’s just yelling because he can’t handle the idea of being bad.”

 

Allura looks at him pointedly.

 

“It didn’t have anything to do with that,” Matt insists. “I didn’t tell him that he was bad. I _specifically_ told him that he was good. I just… told him other things too.”

 

“He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that he’s bad,” Allura says. “Frankly, neither do you.”

 

“It happened, he got through it, I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Matt says.

 

“I don’t want you to drink about it anymore, but here we are,” Allura retorts, but subsides.

 

“Are you looking for advice, or just to rant?” Matt asks after a while.

 

“I wouldn’t call it _ranting_ ,” Allura sniffs, “but I do appreciate your counsel,” although the ‘sometimes’ hangs in the air after it, but fair enough, Matt wouldn’t want to listen to his slurred ramblings either. “As messy as it may become… I’m going to bring the other paladins in. Arbitration doesn’t tend to work when the arbitrators are split down the middle, and at least the others might be able to reason with him. He’s not really listening to me at this point.”

 

“I think that’s a good idea,” Matt says after a moment of consideration. “Pidge and Keith will back you, and Shiro listens to them on strategy. Hunk will side with Shiro, though. I don’t know about Lance. He can be a moral wild card.”

 

“He does have a soft spot for revolutions,” Allura agrees. “But yes, I think he’ll be pragmatic enough. It’s remarkable how much having a child tempers your sense of idealism.”

 

“And… _are_ you going to intervene if it gets any worse?” Matt asks tentatively.

 

“I suppose it depends on how much worse,” Allura says heavily. “Using Voltron to kill our allies doesn’t look very good to our other ones, even if we’re doing it for good reasons, but I would consider it. Eventually.”

 

“Well, tell him that, then,” Matt says. “Just… leave out the eventually.”

 

“He’s still going to yell,” Allura points out.

 

“He’s probably going to yell at me too,” Matt says, resigned. “He’s going to find out.”

 

“Yes, probably, but he won’t yell at you in person,” Allura promises gently. “You don’t need to be worried about that. Just don’t answer any more of his vidcom calls naked.”

 

“I wasn’t naked, I was getting dressed,” Matt protests, but Allura just winks and signs off — hopefully to go rest, Matt thinks, but probably to go back to Princess Duties, one moral compromise at a time.

 

*

 

As Matt glumly predicted, Shiro does find out and yell at him for it, a tense vidcom call that quickly descends into an ugly screaming match that Matt just _knows_ will give his brain great nightmare material for weeks to come, because even over who knows how many thousands of miles away an angry Shiro is always terrifying. Shiro obviously has enough righteous fury to keep going for hours, but Matt signs off right in the middle of it before he breaks and says any of the things that Shiro secretly thinks about himself, because Matt is furious at Shiro for what he’s putting Allura through and knowing how much yelling will scare Matt and doing it anyway, but Matt wants to wound Shiro right now, not actually kill him.

 

Shiro doesn’t show up for his next promised visit, or the one after that. Matt isn’t surprised. He’s betrayed angry hurt angry so fucking lonely ANGRY, and he gets the “wake up lying face first in the street with the neighborhood children staring at him kind of smashed” both days as soon as it becomes clear that Shiro isn’t coming. But he’s not surprised.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CWs: brief abstract reference to past rape(s); brief reference to food insecurity; brief reference to past suicide attempt by a child; brief non-explicit reference to past nonconsensual body modification; explicit alcoholism; PTSD symptoms; sub drop involving suicidal ideation (but no intent).
> 
> Kink CNs: Consensual kink scene involving D/s; S&M, power play; pain play.


	3. Qa (Rainy Season)

By now, Matt’s lived in every climate from desert to snowbound mountains, but he’s still not prepared for the ferocity of Quuduzh’s rainy season. It comes without warning, the skies opening up in the middle of the night, and Matt flails awake at the first cannon boom of thunder to find the streets already ankle-deep in water and his plants swimming in a slushy mess of soil, some of the shallower-rooted ones swept right out of their pots by the force of the deluge. He hauls his entire garden inside off his little balcony, getting totally soaked himself in the process, and spends the most of the night trying to get them back to homeostasis and screaming a little every time Cat leaps off the ceiling in terror at another thunder-boom and lands on his shoulders, and eventually he just ends up huddled in the washroom doorway with her clutched against his chest, trying to remind them both that there’s no enemy outside other than a preexisting moist airmass.

 

At least he’s not alone in his nervousness. In fact, as he discovers as he sloshes to class the next morning, he’s not even the most anxious person he has to deal with all day. Apparently the Quu is notorious for jumping its banks and rampaging through the lowest-lying parts of the city (which are also the poorest and the most badly-constructed!) and the city’s ancient traditions of free higher education and bad pay for the university support staff means that a good ¼ to ⅓ of the people he interacts with actually live in the buildings and “buildings” in danger of getting swept right into the river.

 

It probably shouldn’t be a surprise — he knew about the education and pay already — but 1. his memory is a hole, and 2. it’s really weird to realize that he’s worked (luck-ed) his way back into the middle class after an adulthood spent wearing ponchos so he could hop from rebel foxhole to foxhole (and then later sketchy trade ship to sketchier trade ship) with his bedding on his back.

 

(He will not feel guilt! he tells himself. He has metal feet. They’re more than heavy enough to stomp on it.)

 

By itself, this new fear of death by drowning wouldn’t make much of a difference to his daily level of P&P (panic & paranoia), but he still spends most of the next two weeks marinating in a sour sauce of grumpiness, loneliness, boredom, anxiety, and alcohol, because (the nervousness radiating from the low-lying parts of the city) + (the low-lying students + faculty + green stimulant vendors now crammed under the university’s covered walkways) = \\(╬☉д⊙)///

 

He’ll take the eyeball-sucking dry heat of the season before, he decides, because the rainy season sucks balls. The air is thick enough to gag on, some of his plants have turned yellow-leaved in the moisture, there’s mold creeping up his apartment walls and water beading on his furniture, his mattress is always damp, and some of his older clothes have actually started to rot by the time he prepares for bed to find blood in one of his prosthesis liners.

 

“Oh no,” he tells it, like that’s going to make it go back his body where it’s supposed to live. “No, go away!”

 

Except the problem with pressure sores is that, like ducks, they’re mean and dangerous and they don’t listen when you try to shame them, but unlike (most) ducks they actually have the potential to kill him — have, in fact, already nearly killed him on two separate occasions when they got infected, although his new apartment is more antiseptic than a slum town tent. (Probably. He’s bad at cleaning.)

 

Okay, square breaths like Hunk showed Shiro showed him, in hold out hold in hold out. Not an emergency, just the facts (ma’am). Fact-finding mission! The blood is on the back of his liner, up towards the top, he probably shouldn’t be poking an open wound without washing his hands first (maybe he could just disinfect them with the contents of the cup on his bedside crate? but actually he has no idea what’s in that moonshine other than ethanol, so maybe not), he doesn’t own a mirror (why would he ever need one?), and finally slooooow, dim, sloshy light bulb: datapad!

 

He manages to snap a blurry picture of the back of his thigh with the datapad, twisting around so far to take it that he comes close to throwing his back out as well. The sores don’t actually look that bad — there’s only two of them, each about the size of a tulip petal, red and kind of pretty against the pale white skin around them if you ignore the fact that they’re open wounds, and they’re flat, no crater, and don’t look or feel infected — and it was a struggle to make himself spend money on soap but he does own a pair of (bad, splintery) crutches at Shiro’s insistence, but he mostly chose this particular building to get Allura to stop talking at him while he was just struggling not to vomit on her boots, and now he’s got one tiny elevator he refuses to get trapped in, one prosthesis he can’t wear, one and a quarter usable legs left, and three flights of stairs between him and the rest of the world.

 

It’s a little bit the weather’s fault, but mostly his. He’d gotten lazy with his preventative checks: look for blood in the socks and liners, quick visual scan of his stumps and thighs, quick pat-down for anywhere painful, good to go. Except everything is painful, so many kinds from so many parts of him that he couldn’t tell you where any of them actually were, he can’t see the back of his own thigh, the rainy season air is thick enough that any cloth that started dry and cushy quickly turns dangerously moist, and so this is what he gets for becoming complacent — for ever thinking that his survival was guaranteed beyond the next few hours.

 

At least it’s the weekend. He can drink away all his ~feelings away tonight and deal with the professional ramifications of his Bad Decisions tomorrow.

 

*

  
  
Drinking ~feelings away the night before he has to deal with university bureaucrats: a Bad Decision², but at least he’s able to arrange the remote teaching with vidcom setup before he has to go hop-crutch-hop over to throw up in the sink. Really, though, this isn’t a setback, this is an opportunity! He can’t bring the wrong lesson plan to class, he doesn’t have to scrape his nerves raw with public transit, he doesn’t have to deal with people who want to _chat_ , he’ll have lots of free time to sort through his papers and notebooks and books that he still hasn’t returned to the library and bump up his stats from overall 60% Certified Adult to 75%, and he can basically return to his sad goat cottage level of social interaction without the danger of hypothermia. This is going to be great!

**DAY ONE:** The remote teaching part is easy as pie. The sores are high enough on the back of his thigh that he can’t really sit in a chair without irritating them so he retreats to bed, and within the space of one day his students get to watch him teach at a 90° angle, drop his datapad on his face (multiple times) when he gets tired of craning his neck, and once get a really great view up his nostril when he gets a little too excited and forgets where he is in relation to the video screen, but nobody rolls their eyes (or their species’s equivalent) and walks out of class; one or two of them even wave when his camera pops on. He hasn’t gotten around to finding all of their individual projects yet or finished revising the syllabuses or checked his Inter-Department Mail, but he will. Day one: success.

 

 **DAY TWO:** He checks his I.D.M.! Go him. There’s a lot of stuff in there he can just delete — a galaxy far, far away and it still has junk mail — but the sheer amount of _stuff_ left that he’s supposed to be dealing with is… a lot. Most of it requires multiple steps, multiple lists, some require vidcom calls, a few actually require scheduling _meetings_ (who is Anawaitshe and why does she keep messaging him about scheduling a teacher-student meeting. stop.). The plan is to use today’s post-class time to cut it down to half, but the sun goes down and his B.A.C. goes up and everything is just a flailing blur and then he wakes up the morning of —

 

 **DAY THREE:** — and blearily peers at his datapad screen to find that he’s only worked through the 8 messages out of 57, the last one is so badly spelled and punctuated that he’s going to have to rewrite it and send it again and pretend that the first one got screwed up by a bad dictation program, and he now has 62 messages to work through because people keep sending him things. He manages to respond to a few of the less complicated ones, message Anawaitshe to let her know that he’s not doing any teacher-student meetings right now due to injury but he’ll get back to her, and by the end of the day his I.D.M. count is 15/62, which isn’t _that_ bad. He still hasn’t finished the syllabus revision and he hasn’t found the individual projects, but he’ll deal with that soon. Day two: too smashed to judge. Day three: success.

 

 **DAY FOUR:** 21/60!

 

 **DAY FIVE:** He apparently has a personal mailbox! Didn’t know that! People have been sending him things there too! Didn’t know that either!

 

 **DAY SIX:** 32/58 I.D.M. and 8/156 P.M. _Please_ stop sending him things.

 

 **DAY SEVEN:** After heroic effort the I.D.M. has been (sort of) beat back and the P.M. is obviously just a lost cause, so he moves on the syllabuses. It’s the weekend, which gives him more daytime hours for Certified Adult things and more nighttime hours for drinking, so it all basically evens out, but he manages to get about halfway through the Level 1 syllabus revision. He should have been able to get the whole thing done, but his brain is just one shotgun scatter of anxiety after another today, and it’s so hard to concentrate. A carefully measured regimen of alcohol throughout the day makes the blasts a little quieter, but they’re still there. They’re always still there.

  
  
**DAY EIGHT:** ~~it’s possible that he needs some help with all of this~~

 

 **DAY NINE:** Food might be becoming a bit of a problem. He was almost due to go grocery shopping when his sore-imposed exile started and he’s been managing to make what he has stretch — he is _really good_ at that, because he had to be — but it’s not going to stretch forever. Most of his garden is edible, but he’s already harvested what’s ready and eating the unripened stuff would probably make him sick, and anyway, the idea of destroying his garden when he’s spent so many hours coaxing it into life is just… hard to think about, even though he’s done far harder things to stave off total starvation. Food wasn’t exactly abundant in the Galra labor camp, not when the “laborers” (s-words) were so easy to replace because the Empire was stuffed with people who needed to vanish so their neighbors would keep in line, and 1000 calories is a lot when there’s 4 people and 1800 calories worth of nutri-blocks to go around.

 

Matt tries not to be resentful of Shiro for that, how well-maintained Shiro was for the entire duration of his enslavement, because at least Matt had a few choices about what happened to his body when Shiro had only two — die, or do whatever Haggar wanted him to — and with all of his mods Shiro is going have to carry everything they did to him inside him for the rest of his life, whereas Matt only has to carry around memories. But those are still pretty fucking heavy.

 

 **DAY TEN:** Level 1 syllabus completed! \o/ Still haven’t found those projects. Unread messages in the I.D.M. back to 63. He can’t plan for lessons for level 2 and 3 because he never created any syllabuses and he’s not really sure what level of out of class work is expected here and fuck, he assigned another round of projects two weeks ago, didn’t he? They’re due tomorrow. He’s going to have to go through all fourteen of them and not lose them and stay sober long enough to write feedback. The to-do list pinned to the wall above his bed looks so short and this was supposed to be great but his sores aren’t healing fast enough and the list isn’t getting shorter and pemme night is still six days away and he’s so simultaneously bored and overwhelmed that he spends a good two hours of day ten rereading one of the educational practices books and not understanding a word of it. Day ten: not a success.

 

He’s not vidcomming Allura, though. She’s distracted enough by the Shon Mir mess — she hasn’t even had time for their daily chats for the last week and a half — and she got him this job; the least he can do for her is keep it.

  
  
**DAY ELEVEN:** He’s not going to eat Cat. He just… can’t catch her ~~even though she spends half the time in his lap demanding scritches~~. Yes. She’s edible, it would be practical, but he can’t.

 

 **DAY TWELVE:** He’s not vidcomming Allura for help. He’s _not_. He’s 60% Certified Adult; that should be a good enough Certified Adult:Dumpster Fire ratio to get all of the little paperwork-y things done, and he really does like his students, even the ones that make him headdesk (headbed) as soon as he shuts off his datapad camera. They’re really patient with him. They probably shouldn’t be, but they are, and he feels like hiding under the bed from the paperwork but he actually looks forward to turning on his camera every weekday and seeing them, sleepy and snappish and eager and hungry to learn.

 

Matt remembers being like that once. Shiro says he still is, but Shiro is full of lies shaped like hope, and Shiro didn’t go looking for him after they were freed but now that he’s found Matt, he’ll never stop searching for that boy he knew so many years ago, no matter how many times Matt tells him that that boy is long dead, buried deep under the black mud of the labor camp so that another man could survive instead — a man with his name and his face and his memories and a staff in his hands, ready to beat at the world until it cracked open and bled.

 

That same man does like puzzle cubes and new books and gravitons and gushing about ancient cryptological methods like patterns of nubs woven into fabric vs. new methods like encrypting messages _into bacterial DNA_ because it’s so awesome!!!, though, so maybe Shiro has a point. But just a tiny one. A knot in a five strands of thread. Shiro has a nub.

 

 **DAY THIRTEEN:** Shiro still hasn’t vidcommed him. It’s been a month. ~~Matt just hopes he’s alright~~

 

 **DAY FOURTEEN:** “You’re smart and capable,” Matt tells her encouragingly, because he believes in her and it’s important that she believes in herself too. “If I give you money you can go buy me food, right?”

 

Cat just flicks her tongue at him.

 

 **DAY FIFTEEN:** There aren’t a lot of people in the hallway at this hour, but if he puts this off any longer he’s going to have to actually start thinking about what he’s about to do, so he stays where he is, leaning up against his door frame with Cat draped around his shoulders, both of them waiting for someone to pass by. He just I’m Not a Slitheen smiles at the first few people who pass by — doesn’t know her, doesn’t know him; actually he doesn’t know anyone in this building — but then one of the aunties’ many grandkids comes pounding up the stairs, and he remembers that he does know a few people in this building, sort of.

 

“Hey,” he calls. “Can you — um. Can I talk to your grandma?”

 

She eyes him suspiciously. “Why?”

 

“I want to ask her about a —” he says, but can’t make his mouth shape _favor_ “— a thing. I need to talk to her about a thing. But I can’t get up the stairs right now.”

 

The girl thinks about this for a moment, then darts off, and a minute later he faintly hears her yelling through the open rooftop door: “Gamma, it’s the drunk with the legs! He can’t get up the stairs right now so he wants you to come down so he can talk to you about a thing!”

 

“Actually, that’s not a bad nickname,” Matt tells Cat, who hisses, probably in agreement.

 

He’s ¾ expecting the auntie to send the grandkid back down to tell him to go bother someone else (he’s _not_ calling Allura, he’s _not_ calling Pidge, Shiro probably isn’t talking to him, Cat doesn’t want to go buy him groceries, he doesn’t know anyone else, now isn’t the time for a panic attack, it’s not, it’s not —) but a few minutes later the auntie comes creaking down the stairs and to his door.

 

“Alright, talk,” she says. “What’s this thing?”

 

“Um,” Matt says. “I’m… I’m injured, and I can’t get down the stairs right now. If I give you money for food, can you send one of your grandkids to go get it?”

 

She considers him for a moment — he thinks about giving her an I’m Not a Slitheen smile, but that might actually work against him — and then she informs him, “I want an order of dumplings from the bakery down the way.”

 

“And if I pay for them you’ll bring me my food?” Matt guesses.

 

The auntie mmms at him. “It’s five credits an order, and that’s cheaper than any delivery service.” (Why, why did he not think of that, he could have saved himself neighbor interaction — but then again, he’s not really used to living in places that have Peapod.)

 

“I can do that,” Matt says, and then: “Actually, how good are the dumplings?”

 

His “bring me a week’s worth of food and not the expensive stuff” order arrives barely two hours later, carried to his door by a child horde; apparently the aunties’ grandkid army works fast, although maybe not well, because one of the kids has an expression that says I Didn’t Drop The Bag Of Your Food In The Street!, but as long as nothing is inedible he doesn’t really mind. They tromp into his apartment to set it all out on the counter — one of them immediately running off to stick xir face in his bean trellis — and then minus bean kid they all turn to silently stare at him, which is… wow, creepy. He loved being Pidge’s big brother, every single stargazing evening and secret code language (what their parents didn’t know…) and bowl of macaroni & cheese that had to be made _just right_ , but Pidge is a Holt with all that entails, and he’s never been good with any kids who weren’t.

 

“Tell your grandma thank you?” Matt tries.

 

“What’s her name?” the tall kid asks, pointing at Cat.

 

“Cat,” Matt says warily.

 

“What tricks does she do?” the short kid asks.

 

“She doesn’t do tricks,” Matt says, then asks Cat: “Do you?” and turns back to short kid. “No tricks.”

 

“I want to pet her,” tall kid says.

 

“Uh, no,” Matt says.

 

“I petted her yesterday,” shortest kid protests. “I petted her loads. I fed her a bug.”

 

“I want to feed her a bug,” tall kid says.

 

“She feeds herself,” Matt says, “she doesn’t need people to feed her bugs — hey, please get your face out of my beans!”

 

“What plants are these?” bean kid asks.

 

“Beans,” Matt says, “get your face out of them! You could be allergic!”

 

“I want to feed Cat a bug,” tall kid says, “are there bugs in the beans?”

 

“There’s bugs,” bean kid shouts, “there’s _tons_ of bugs!”

 

“Awesome,” tall kid says, and tries to make a dash for the beans, but Matt cuts her off.

 

“Alright, everyone out!” he says in his best imitation of Shiro’s Space Dad Voice, trying to herd them towards the open door without catching his crutches on something and falling splat-crunch-ow on his face. “Time to go! Leave my beans alone! Say thanks to your grandma!”

 

“I want to feed Cat a bug,” tall kid protests as Matt tries to telepathically shove her out of his apartment. You will leave and not come back unless I need more food, alakazam!

 

“You can feed her another time,” he says, manages to shut the door with all of them on the other side, and then turns around to find bean kid right behind him.

 

“I have a bug for Cat,” bean kid announces, and Matt gives up.

 

“One bug, feed and go!” he says; bean kid offers Cat a beetle (okay those do actually eat his plants and Cat loves them — thank you, bean kid!) before scuttling out the door, probably to brag that xie got to feed Cat a bug and they didn’t!

 

#KIDS #IsItWineTimeYet, right?

 

(Actually, Matt doesn’t drink wine, he drinks stuff that you can’t develop a palate for because it burns off your taste buds. Ride or die!!! Shiro drinks wine. Shiro has a small child and a stressful job and he drinks wine, Shiro’s a _wine mom_ , and Allura sometimes calmly reschedules her appointments and meetings and arranges for someone to take care of Alric and builds herself a pillow fort and then eats a bunch of the dried fruit that makes Alteans trip BALLS. Pidge has video. They sent it to him before Fight #2, when everything went even more to shit, and sometimes Matt cues it up for Shiro when he’s sad or for Allura when she’s feeling too Princess-y. #IsItShiroAndAlluraTimeYet #ShiroHasToForgiveHimEVENTUALLY)

 

Still, none of that was that hard! ( _It was, it was, it was —_ ) He just has one more thing he has to do today before he can take off his moth-eaten courage and put it back in the drawer.

 

* * *

 

FROM: holtm@quu/univ.galax

TO: profaffairsadmin@quu/univ.galax

 

SUBJECT: Teaching assistant

 

Is there a system for hiring advanced students to work as assistants to professors? (Or hiring someone else?)

 

_Associate Professor Holt, Astrophysics_

* * *

 

 **DAY SIXTEEN:** PEMME NIGHT!!! Round Five mission: Don’t die! Also work on betraying the other players while collaborating with them to complete the transcontinental military infrastructure that they’ve been plodding away at for three rounds. [ ptau_demi] is a good big picture thinker and [rrreett30] is pretty decent at keeping track of their budget and resource allotment, but [♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡] is _clearly_ the only player other than him with any kind of military background —

 

“No, don’t — no!” Matt cries, fingers tapping madly away at his datapad keys and cursing the remote play dialogue lag time. “Do not spend our ammo money on another _school_ , we have five in that region! Kids can take the bus! I survived _forty-five minute_ bus rides when I was a kid!”

 

— and it shows. They all manage to squeak out of round five alive — although Rrroo gets stuck in a besieged city for the beginning of round six and Ai loses enough of her books that she drops one Knowledge point, great — but they’re all going to _die_ on round six unless somebody comes up with a workable strategy for beating back their living enemies and then turning around to punch their undead enemies in the face and _for fuck’s sake do not ever let them break through the line to cross paths_ , because you can bribe and turn and trick living enemies but you can’t slip a zombie a few extra credits so you can get through that gate. (They don’t have zombies in this galaxy — obviously, since they don’t have Haiti — but they do have multiple mythologies featuring violent undead, because fear of death and disease is universal. Cool!)

 

>CHAT OPENED

[schemethedream] okay lets talk

[schemethedream] show me urs and ill show u mine

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] …

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] My what?

[schemethedream] ur secret objective

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Why now?

[schemethedream] were going to DIE

[schemethedream] unless we put together a real strategy for holding living/undead line

[schemethedream] but u shouldnt trust me. my secret objective could be undead takeover of the galaxy while i live in a bunker

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I don’t think that’s your secret objective — otherwise you could just let Pa’Tema stay in charge of our rear lines

[schemethedream] PA’TEMA NEEDS TO BE STOPPED

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Agreed

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] We’ll talk secret objectives later

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Right now we just need to establish that line. Truce?

[schemethdream] truce well talk later

[schemethedream] LETS GO STOP PA’TEMA

 

**DAY SEVENTEEN:**

* * *

 

FROM: profaffairsadmin@quu/univ.galax

TO: holtm@quu/univ.galax

 

SUBJECT: Re: Teaching assistant

 

Yes, we occasionally hire advanced students as assistants, but it’s a very small stipend.

* * *

 

FROM: holtm@quu/univ.galax

TO: profaffairsadmin@quu/univ.galax

 

SUBJECT: Re: Teaching assistant

 

Good enough!

 

_Associate Professor Holt, Astrophysics_

* * *

 

FROM: holtm@quu/univ.galax

TO: [contacts bundle: “Level 3 Class”]

 

SUBJECT: Teaching Assistant Position Open

 

Class! I’m recruiting for a teacher’s assistant position. The university says they’ll pay you a “very small” stipend (and it’s academia so you know it’s *really* small). It’s not very exciting — I need someone to help grade things from lower-level classes and write lesson plans and keep track of schedules. If you’re interested send me a message </delete delete> talk to me before/after class. (Not during.)

 

_Associate Professor Holt, Astrophysics_

* * *

 

 

 ~~  
~~ **DAY EIGHTEEN:**

# NO MORE SORES! BACK IN CLASS! 

To his surprise, most of his students are actually still there, and to his even greater surprise, one of them actually corners him after class despite his attempts to ooze around her to freedom and faculty office tea.

 

“Good afternoon, Professor Holt,” (Eeba? Eena!) Eena says, brightly as always but nervous-sounding on top of it.

 

“Hi,” Matt says warily.

 

“That was a _wonderful_ lecture,” Eena continues.

 

“...Thanks,” Matt says.

 

“My greatmother would like me to tell you, um,” Eena continues, mumbling and staring at the air above Matt’s left ear so intently that Matt turns to look to see if anything’s there, “that the bakery was very honored to serve such a learned man as yourself and hopes that you liked her food and they do home deliveries and it’s a really reasonable fee and much better than the bakery three blocks down because all their stuff is stale.”

 

“...That was your bakery?” Matt asks, although maybe he shouldn’t be surprised — there are a lot of Xaraz in his neighborhood.

 

“It belongs to my greatmother’s friend’s niece’s daughter and her mate who’s my second cousin,” Eena says. “So yes.”

 

“Your greatmother’s friend’s niece’s daughter and your second cousin know that speech isn’t going to work on me, right?” Matt asks, while inwardly he’s cringing away from the toadying so hard he sprains something, ouch.

 

Eena nods miserably. “I _told_ my greatmother that, but she said I had to do it anyway.”

 

“You could have just lied to her and said you did,” Matt points out to her.

 

“Oh no, I can’t,” Eena says grimly. “She’ll _know_.”

 

Matt peers at her. “I didn’t know you guys were telepathic.”

 

“Oh, we’re not,” Eena says. “But she’ll know anyway. She has spies everywhere,” which is how Matt learns that every single one of the Xaraz he’s seen in his district and at the university are all part of the same enormous family spawned by Eena’s greatmother, who rules over her hundreds of descendants with a benevolent totalitarianism that would put some dictators to shame.

 

“Wait, all of my Xaraz students are your siblings?” Matt asks. “Do you share notes?”

 

“Well, they are and some of them do, but I don’t know all of my siblings,” Eena explains. “I really like memorizing things, but that’s a lot even for me. I know most of them, though, and there’s about sixty of us in our building.”

 

Matt stares at her, aghast. “How do you guys handle that? I only have one sibling and sometimes even that’s one too many. I don’t even live in the same star system as them.”

 

Eena blinks two of her four eyes at him, looking confused. “Why would we ever need to be alone? I would never want to live without the Hive. That would be like being _dead_.”

 

Matt shrugs. “I live by myself and I’m not dead yet. Humans are built differently. We can survive on our own just fine.”

 

Apparently Eena’s not convinced of his long-term survival prospects, though, because the next day he jolts awake to one of the Grandkid Army yelling through his door that a Xaraz gave this to xir and told xir Bring this to Professor Holt or else I’ll cut your ears off and can I pet Cat I have a biiiiiiiiiig bug —

  
“Okay, one pet and one bug and then you go,” Matt tells bean kid, who carefully presents Cat with an enormous millipede and then scritches her after Matt gives in to Cat’s annoyed stare at him and shows bean kid where her itchy scale patches are and how to help her scratch a little of it off, gently! and then scoots bean kid out, because the box xie brought smells really good and Cat can wait until her bugs are room temperature but Matt wants to eat whatever this is while it’s hot, although he’s confused as to why he has it in the first place — he doesn’t remember placing another order and he definitely doesn’t remember paying; maybe he drunk-ordered? — before he sees the note attached to the box of — ooh, yum, dumplings!

 

 

*

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:27) are u ok?

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:31) i havent heard from u for a while

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:31) did u fall in a hole

 **me, an intellectual:** (9:02) was it a big hole

 **me, an intellectual:** (12:15) was it a black hole

 **me, an intellectual:** (12:15) pidge told me u did that once. it sounded AWESOME. i want to fall in a black hole!

 **me, an intellectual:** (15:08) srsly tho r u in a black hole

 **me, an intellectual:** (19:58) shiro???

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (19:59) did shiro fall in a black hole?

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (20:10) I have no reason to believe so…

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (20:11) But these things do happen sometimes.

 **me, an intellectual:** (20:11) esp to u

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (20:13) Yes, but I imagine a life without these things would be horrifically boring. I’d rather have black holes.

 **me, an intellectual:** (20:14) black holes r COOL if they dont kill u

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (20:20) Exactly!

 **me, an intellectual:** (20:20) is he talking to u? hes still not talking to me

 **me, an intellectual:** (20:31) i just want to know if hes stuck in a hole

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (20:39) Metaphorically stuck, yes. Literally, no — at least, not the last time I saw him. It’s been a while.

 **me, an intellectual:** (20:39) is he sleeping in different rooms?? OUCH

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (20:57) No, Black was called away on business in the N3 quadrant. I’m back on the Castle with Alric.

 **me, an intellectual:** (20:58) say hi to him from me

 **me, an intellectual:** (20:58) alric not shiro

 **me, an intellectual:** (20:58) altho if u see shiro say hi to him from me too

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:04) I will.

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:04) Alric says hello as well.

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:10) According to our tracking system, Black is not currently in a black hole.

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:10) Shiro’s just avoiding us.

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:10) I love him dearly, but sometimes he is an utter shit.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:12) YE

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:12) but at least hes not lost in a black hole n being impostered by another clone

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:15) Yes, I’ve had quite enough of that.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:15) haha like u wouldnt fuck a shiro clone!

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:15) Not without Shiro present.

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:16) And I wouldn’t fuck Kuron.

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:17) Or Sven.

 **made of** ☆ **stuff:** (21:17) But were we to find another one and he was reasonably likeable… Shiro and I would talk.

 

*

 

First it’s the dumplings, which are great! He never passes up free food — he’s not sure why he’s getting free food, but he’s still going to eat it! — and the dumplings are the perfect ratio of squishy:crispy and sweet:salty, each one a little bundle of deliciousness and recognizable meats, and then when he reluctantly ventures out to the bakery in question (trying really hard not to make eye contact with anyone along the way), he discovers that they make sweet dumplings too, stuffed with bean paste & fruit and/or jam that squirts all over his hands with his first bite. Maybe they just sent him that free order because they sniffed out his alcohol addiction and decided that they could get him addicted to their dumplings too.

 

(Yes. Yes they probably can. He has an addictive personality — just ask anyone who’s not Pidge! And five credits every once in awhile isn’t so bad…)

 

The stale food bakery where he usually shops isn’t much closer to his building, and Matt counts every step he has to take in public but these dumplings are worth taking a few extra, so he goes to the bakery (confusingly named The Bakery) for a second dumpling run, and then a third barely a few days later. On his fourth run, the woman behind the counter boxes up his dumplings and then shoves a giant stack of savory egg pancakes at him and tells him that they’re free, compliments of the Hive — and curse them, their evil plot is clearly to get him addicted to every kind of food they serve here, and it’s _working_. First the Dumplings of Deliciousness, then the Pancakes of Evil. What’s next, the Crepes of Doom?

 

Flatbread, it turns out, although the kind The Bakery makes is spongy and floppy, closer to injera than pita. He’ll happily shove his face into a pile of it and eat it plain, but the woman behind the counter — Eena’s greatmother’s friend’s niece’s daughter? Eena’s greatmother’s friend’s niece’s daughter’s mate? — E.G.F.N.D./M. informs him that The Stewery next door is theirs too so they know it’s good and he should take the bread over there, can your species taste spices? Ask for #4, no charge, and all told he spends 20 minutes eating in _public_ , not (always) twitching every time someone comes near him because they might steal his food, so if The Bakery is a factory of evil he’s fine with it.

  
But then things start happening to him elsewhere, too. His grocery money starts stretching a little further than it should. Lines melt away when he queues up behind them. He always gets a seat on the bus, no matter how crowded, some Xaraz hopping up to let him sit down and elbowing anyone who tries to get there first. His morning stimulant sludge is suddenly free. Strangers start greeting him by name — well, “Professor Holt” — not just in his neighborhood, but practically everywhere he goes in the city. They make _small talk_ . The torturously uncomfortable chair in his classroom vanishes overnight, replaced by one of the squashy blue chairs he’s never seen outside of the library, his desk is suddenly level, and the next day he comes across two Xaraz caretakers meticulously repairing a tiny hole in the screen window, so small he never would have noticed it if they weren’t hovering around it. Bean kid’s knocking down his door every other day with free samples from some new restaurant, all with a handwritten note attached thanking him for everything he’s doing for our Eena, and when he checks a book on subtropical gardening out from the library, the next day it’s a bag of mulch that bean kid’s dragging up the stairs, and

Whatever charity campaign Eena’s orchestrating seems benevolent, but Matt’s paranoia seismometer is already a finely calibrated instrument and all of this sudden attention in a city that he expressly moved to for its anonymity is making that needle jump off the page, until venturing out of his apartment -- or even just answering the door -- feels like being trapped in a panopticon of Xaraz good intentions.

 

(“They’ve been _observing_ _my_ _beans_ ,” he moans to Cat, who looks entirely unsympathetic; actually, she seems fatter lately too.)

 

M - (anonymity) + (OBSERVATION) + (ugly frustration at being charity) = tension force like WHOA, and by week two of Eena’s Save-the-Matt campaign he’s ready to snap. After a splitting-headache-hangover morning where 5 (five!!) different Xaraz neighbors greet him by name as he hobbles out late for the bus and yet another dawdles in the bus door long enough for him to catch up and clank on: TWANG!, and he corners Eena after class.

 

“Whatever be nice to me project you’ve got your Hive working on, it needs to _stop_ ,” Matt tells her, aiming for ‘fair but firm!’ and overshooting right into ‘deranged’. “No more gifts or favors or strangers _talking_ to me.”

 

“You don’t like them?” Eena asks, looking nervous.

 

“No,” Matt exclaims, “no! I don’t! Throw the brakes on this pity train right now or — else!” he finishes lamely.

 

Eena’s a gentle-hearted soul, but he’s still not prepared for her to immediately start keening like a boiling kettle, her species’s equivalent of bursting into tears, so loud that he actually has to cover his ears (and he’s an ex-bombmaker — his ears aren’t great!).

 

“I _told_ her this wouldn’t work,” Eena wails, “but she didn’t listen, she never listens! And you’re going to make me leave your class and probably never let me come back and I’m going to be stuck studying under Professor Slom again and he’s going to put me back in the basement with the _book lice_ and never let me do real work and I was so _excited_ — _!_ ”

 

“Wait, what’s happening?” Matt asks, bewildered.

 

“I-I’ve learned so much from you!” Eena sobs. “You’re my favorite professor!”

 

“I’m not making you leave my class,” Matt says quickly before she lets loose with another teakettle shriek. “I just want you to stop this — thing.”

 

“ _Or else_ ,” Eena moans.

 

“No else, just stop,” Matt pleads with her. “The… whatever you were doing. I don’t need —” _(pity)_ “— help.”

 

“You filled the position?” Eena asks mournfully.

 

“The position?” Matt asks, confused. “What position?”

 

“Your message said to talk to you before or after class but that’s not how she does things, I told her I should just _talk_ to you but she never listens —” Eena starts.

 

“My message?” Matt echoes, then: “Are you talking about teaching assistant position? I haven’t filled that.”

 

“If the university changed their mind about paying for one, I don’t care if I get a very small stipend, I’ll do it for free,” Eena insists.

 

“…Wait, are you trying to bribe me into making you my T.A.?” Matt asks.

 

“ _I’m_ not trying to bribe you,” Eena says, “but she’s old-fashioned, she doesn’t think it’s a _bribe_ , she doesn’t understand that not everyone wants to incorporated into the system…”

 

“Your greatmother is trying to bribe me into making you my T.A.?” Matt revises. “ _Why?_ ”

 

“I was excited,” Eena says sadly.

 

“No, why is she trying to bribe me?” Matt asks, bewildered. “I told you, it’s not that exciting, and it’s academia, it’s a _really_ small stipend. I don’t have anyone for the position. I didn’t think I was going to _get_ anyone.”

 

“But you’re such a, a good professor!” Eena hiccups. “You always make everything sound so _interesting_ , I’m retaking L3 even though I already did it under Professor Slom because I didn’t learn _anything_ from him and he hated me because I’m a Xaraz and I’m learning so much from you, it would be such an honor to work for you —”

 

“Eena, seriously, you can stop with the overblown praise, it doesn’t work on me,” Matt says.

 

“It’s not overblown,” Eena mumbles.

 

“If you actually want the position — it’s yours,” Matt tells her. “There isn’t a line out the door; the only person who’s even talked to me about it is you. And anyway, you’re one of my best students. Your greatmother doesn’t need to bribe me because you’re subpar — you’re good on your own merits.”

 

“Really?” Eena asks tremulously. “I can have the position?”

 

“Yeah,” Matt says, “just… no more creepy nice. And I hope you’re not expecting something exciting, or that you’ll learn something other than how annoying it is to T.A. for me.”

 

“You could never be annoying,” Eena says earnestly.

 

“Oh, wow,” Matt says, shaking his head. “You say that now.”

 

*

 

* * *

FROM: holtm@quu/univ.galax

TO: pass-the-salt@volt/pers.galax

 

SUBJECT: ta

 

pidg3e

 

i hav a ta!!!1!  im LEG IT prf essor nw

shhh the y think i KNOWQ thingss fr MON4EY

idon t knosw shiiiiiiiit anymorese bot imn no t goin  tel htme

hr namnes eeena  hunkj wld likr he theytre bot SMART she shdk be hisd   ta

she cnat be ur ta u dont hgave paciecnce

u canb tricjk thte galasxy b uwt iknow u

 

_Associate Professor Holt, Astrophysics_

* * *

 

FROM: pass-the-salt@volt/pers.galax

TO: holtm@quu/univ.galax

SUBJECT: Re: ta

 

Go home, Matt, you’re drunk.

 

And don’t use your work mail to send personal messages when you’re shitfaced.

* * *

 

FROM: holtm@quu/univ.galax

TO: pass-the-salt@volt/pers.galax

 

SUBJECT: Re: ta

 

i thinb  k u mna BRUYCE

 

_Associate Professor Holt, Astrophysics_

* * *

 

*

 

>CHAT CONTINUED

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Were you sick last night or just really drunk?

[schemethedream] what??

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Your messages during our strategy session got really… garbled

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Something about zombbijes? Znombs?

[schemethedream] zombies

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] ???

[schemethedream] sorry. undead

[schemethedream] monster story from my planet

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Which planet?

[schemethedream] ...

[schemethedream] urt

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Sorry, never heard of it…

[schemethedream] dont worry, no apologies needed

[schemethedream] u wouldnt have

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I’m not from Qua either — I’m Soogbuk

[schemethedream] u guys have good food

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Agreed! :) But this city is great for all kinds of food

[schemethedream] esp if u like it fried

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] My wives don’t

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] but I do :D

[schemethedream] they must hate living here

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] They’re both Quabi!

[schemethedream] how did they SURVIVE

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] *No* idea.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] They’re both weirdos but I love them :)

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] (They say the same thing about me)

[schemethedream] weirdos unite!

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Exactly!

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] ;)

[schemethedream] i think i see what u did there

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] “unite” ;P

[schemethedream] i definitely see what u did there

[schemethedream] ...

[schemethedream] i wasnt sick

[schemethedream] i was drunk

[schemethedream] i do that sometimes sorry

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Had a fun night, at least?

[schemethedream] ya

[schemethedream] anyway. how do u solve a problem like PA’TEMA

 

*

 

Once every ten to fourteen days, that had been Shiro’s promise when Matt moved here.  It’s been six weeks since he last spoke to Shiro, though, and seven weeks since he last saw him in person, and Matt’s started to wonder whether their rela ~whatever is going to go the way of the passenger (Pidge)on when he drags himself out of bed a few mornings after Eena officially becomes his T.A. to see 11 NEW MESSAGES flashing on his datapad screen.

 

 **the white knight:** (23:18) I saw your messages.

 **the white knight**   **:** (23:18) I’m okay. Peaceful mission up in the N3. We arbitrated a peace between two feuding royal families there a few years ago. Black and I got called in as neutral security for the marriage that’s sealing the accords, but we weren’t expecting trouble — the last time that feud got bloody was a generation ago and everyone involved wants the peace to work, so we were just there for the symbolism.

 **the white knight:** (23:19) That’s a lot of my job, actually. I wish it could be more of it.

 **the white knight:** (23:21) I got to say hello to an old flame of Allura’s and mine, though. That was interesting. Her youngest son (not ours, don’t worry) is starting to get into politics, but she seems to be staying out of it, so her position in the court seems just as stable as when we were involved. I’m glad she’s doing well.

 

 **the white knight:** (23:46) Do you have time for a vidcom call this week?

 

 **the white knight:** (2:01) I hope so. I miss you.

 

 **the white knight:** (3:54) Allura’s upset with how I’ve been treating you and she’s probably right.

 **the white knight:** (3:54) I’m still angry that you two went behind my back to out-strategize me politically. I thought (and still think!) that bringing the other paladins into the Shon Mir situation was a bad idea, but instead of just talking to me about it, Allura talked to you and then went straight to them, so now I’m stuck in a difficult position that’s just getting worse.

 **the white knight:** (3:55) But I know that none of this is your job anymore — you didn’t sign up to be our political advisor, and *neither* of us should be treating you like you did.

 **the white knight:** (3:56) So, I’m sorry.

 **the white knight:** (3:56) Call me when you wake up, or at least message me? You don’t have to forgive me — I just want to know that you haven’t asphyxiated on your own vomit or walked out in front of a bus or something like that. I worry.

 

“If you worry so much, next time you could just not ignore me for a month and a half,” Matt tells him as soon as **the white knight**  accepts his vidcom call and Shiro’s face pops up on the screen.

 

Shiro half-smiles tiredly. “Not forgiving me, then.”

 

“I didn’t say that,” Matt says. “But your conflict resolution skills need improvement.”

 

“There’s a comment about glass houses here, but I won’t make it,” Shiro says.

 

“You basically just did,” Matt points out, because Shiro :) is :) passive :) aggressive :) even when he’s apologizing. “I see you for who you really are, Shirogane.”

 

“Yeah, I know you do,” Shiro says, but it’s a real smile this time — #4, existentially weary but something > fond, a twin to #2, and #2 is Shiro’s Allura smile. #4 is actually scarier than angry Shiro, so Matt decides to be the figuratively bigger literally smaller person and let this go so the conversation can bob off to safer waters, like, like —

 

“Who was your old flame?” Matt blurts out.

 

“Hmm?” Shiro asks. “Oh. Sibieaz. We were all involved for a while — it wasn’t serious, none of us wanted that, but we had fun.” He laughs a little to himself. “It was… educational. She’s actually older than Allura, and she’s like you.”

 

“An alcoholic?” Matt guesses.

 

“A sa—” Shiro starts, then amends it to, “She has your tastes in bed games.”

 

“Wait, was she… Oh man. Was she your kinky training wheels?” Matt asks.

 

“Well, she was my kinky training something,” Shiro says. “Like I said. Educational.”

 

“How did you trust her with that?” Matt asks before he can help himself. “I understand Allura, but I don’t understand…” he stalls out.

 

“She was the former queen’s favorite mistress for a long time, long enough to be well-established at court by the time we met her, and she’d had her fill of scandal and intrigue, so we bet that she was going to try leveraging us politically and we were right,” Shiro says. “We haven’t always been, but Sibieaz is fair to her lovers and she was fair to us.”

 

“No, the kinky training part,” Matt says, and then tries to ignore all the images that _that_ brings up. “I thought you learned from Allura.”

 

Shiro shakes his head. “A little, but we mostly learned together. A lot from Sibieaz, a lot with each other, some with other people. Every culture has their taboos, but with a lot of peoples out here, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s the politics part that’s much more difficult.”

 

That’s not really what I meant, Matt thinks, but he doesn’t know what he wants — okay, fine, he does know what he wants (the answer to), but he doesn’t know if he wants to be the one to ask the question, because it might break this spell that Shiro’s woven around himself, that Matt’s someone he can trust, that anyone can trust. But Allura makes her home in the (B?)DS end of the acronym, and Shiro’s a firm believer in R.A.C.K. and a masochist with decades of combat experience and a plasma-option bionic arm so he can (probably?) defend himself if he had to, and _he_ was the one to ask for… r?R?easons, so… “I’ve been thinking? About what you asked me about last time.”

 

“Thinking or _thinking_?” Shiro teases.

 

“Number one,” Matt says. “But enough that… It’s not about you wanting to be punished, is it? You know I don’t do that. Ever. Even the supposedly fun kind.”

 

“It’s not,” Shiro says.

 

“Or wanting to — fight back,” Matt continues, even though he feels a little sick just to say it.

 

“No,” Shiro says gently. “I don’t want to fight back. I don’t want to fight it at all. And even if that is what I wanted, I would never ask you for it.”

 

“Then you just…?” Matt asks awkwardly.

 

“Do you need to know?” Shiro asks.

 

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Not always — not usually — but for this? I do.”

 

Shiro thinks for a moment. “I guess…” He sighs. “I fight all the time. I fought for Haggar and now I fight for Voltron, I fight the Galra, I fight petty bureaucrats and stupid kings and cruel despots, and now I’m fighting this stupid Shon Mir mess. I fight myself every day,” and Matt nods; wonders how many rooftops Shiro’s found himself on lately.

 

“I just want to… not have to,” Shiro continues. “I want to just… let it come to me, to be able to take it and have to not fight it, and for everything to still be okay afterwards.” He smiles. “And I think it’ll feel good.”

 

“We have weird wiring,” Matt says, and Shiro shrugs.

 

“I’m happy with it,” Shiro says.

 

“If it’s really something you want,” Matt says, “…I guess I can do that —” _to?_ “— for you.”

 

“For you?” Shiro echoes, looking concerned. “I know _for_ isn’t your thing. I don’t want this if you’re doing it for me.”

 

“For me too,” Matt says (no, _for Shiro, for Shiro, for Shiro —_ ). “It could be fun. Maybe? We haven’t tried any impact stuff before.”

 

“It’ll be tricky,” Shiro warns.

 

“ _We’re_ tricky,” Matt points out before Shiro sends himself on a boat trip down Guilt River. “We still do stuff. We probably shouldn’t, but we do.”

 

“I’m not a big fan of ‘should’,” Shiro reminds him. “It’s not a good thing to live your life by.”

 

“Well, there’s thinking and there’s thinking, and there’s should and then there’s should,” Matt says. “I don’t know which one of those this is.”

 

“We’ll find out?” Shiro asks questioningly, and it’s the same non-judgemental tone as always — _I’m okay no matter what you decide, I’m okay no matter what_ — and Matt doesn’t judge Shiro or Allura and for some reason they don’t judge him (well, in bed), that’s important, that’s the only way this works, but Matt gets tired of Shiro being okay no matter what, even if it’s what gets Shiro through all the time between rooftops, so if Shiro wants somewhere where he doesn’t have to be _okay_ , that’s —

 

“Okay,” Matt says. “Yeah. We will! But after research. And practice.”

 

“Practice?” Shiro asks, eyebrow raised.

 

“Well, you want to let it come to you, but I’m the one bringing it,” Matt says. “And I’ve been on the other side of… impact, but never the one actually holding the — thing. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

 

“My advice?” Shiro says. “Start with a cushion.”

 

“I’m not going to _smother_ you,” Matt says. “Breathplay hard no.”

 

“No, I mean practice hitting a cushion,” Shiro says. “I’ve been told it helps you get the confidence to hit a person.”

 

“I’ve hit people before,” Matt says quietly. “I don’t need practice with that.”

 

Shiro just looks at him.

 

“Alright,” Matt says, “I’ll buy a cushion. But not one of the Shiro dakimakuras. That would be weird.”

 

“Wait, someone here makes those?” Shiro asks. “With _me_ on them?”

 

“Oh yeah!” Matt says brightly, and decides that now is not a good time to share that he’d seriously considered buying one himself. Not for sex things, just… his bed had seemed pretty small when he’d bought it, but these days it’s feeling way too big when he’s the only one there. “Clothed and naked. And I was at the store with the glass dildos the other day and I’m pretty sure I saw an in inflatable—”

 

“Actually, I think I hear Keith calling my name,” Shiro says hurriedly. “We’ll talk later.”

 

“Allura said that Keith was in the N4,” Matt says, grinning.

 

“Maybe he just got back,” Shiro says, but then more seriously: “I do actually need to go. But I’m glad we had a chance to talk, and I’ll see you soon for a visit, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Matt says quietly. “Go save the galaxy.”

 

“I wish I could,” Shiro says, and TS signs off the vidcom call.

 

That night — after a day of classes and less paperwork (Eena ٩(^ᴗ^)۶!!!) and getting a library membership in the city’s public library system so he could check out Definitely Not Work-Related books at an automated kiosk — Matt drinks himself into bed per usual, enough to muffle the shrieking in his head and drown any dreams that try to kick to the surface, and also enough that he’s pretty sure nothing is going to come of anything he does — he sure won’t! — and then cautiously peels back the Matt Thoughts a little bit and lets himself _think_ about Shiro’s proposal, lets his hands go where they want to and his thoughts go where they want to, lets himself imagine: _feel this_ , again. **_Feel this_ ** , again. _Mercy_ _—_

 

— but Shiro wants it, Shiro _wants_ it, again  & again & again; Shiro wants to _take_ it, again &again&again, Shiro wants and Matt _wants_ , again&again&again&again&again, every blow singing through his body, _Shiro wants to be overwhelmed_ , again&again&again&again —

 

Well. He was wrong about nothing coming of it. And coming pretty quickly, too.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CWs: explicit alcoholism, emetophobia, bodily injury, agoraphobia, explicit PTSD


	4. En (Dry Season)

The deadly storms don’t come this rainy season, and the Quu floods only once, seeping into the dockside fish market on its banks in the middle of the night and washing a lot of surprised soon-to-be-seafood there back into the river. The fishermen yell and stomp and go a little hungrier for the few days it takes to ruin said seafood’s day by hauling them back up onto the shore, everyone gripes about trench foot and how their laundry never dries on the line, and when the rains finally dry up and it becomes clear that there’ll be no more floods, the entire city breathes out, wall to wall parties — for once, he’s not even the drunkest person on the street!!! — before everyone goes back to griping, this time about the searing sun and all the farmers migrating from the countryside back into the city now that their fields are too dry to grow anything but rocks. Matt breathes out too, and he goes from drunk most nights to drunk some nights and just boozy on the others, which is definitely an improvement, no matter what Allura thinks.

 

“You could come visit me more often,” Matt offers. “I sober up for those. Ish.”

 

“Firstly, you don’t, and secondly, I hope you’re not trying to use your drinking habits to make us feel guilty,” Allura says sharply. “We are not the guardians of your sobriety.”

 

“No,” Matt quickly assures her. “No. It’s just a joke. I’d drink as much anyway!”

 

“It’s not a very funny joke, and Shiro thinks you’re being serious, so please stop,” Allura bites out.

 

“Shiro needs to develop a better sense of humor,” Matt says, but he does stop making that particular (sort of a) joke, and Allura apologizes to him for being so harsh a few days later.

 

Thanks to the sun, the rooftop, a long weekend, and two two trips up and down the stairs before he finally gives in and bribes bean kid (Shashis, apparently) & friends with Cat Time to haul most of the haulable things in his apartment up to the rooftop so he can sit in the middle of them and flinch whenever someone passes too close by, his belongings dry out pretty much immediately, and it only takes about a week for the mold to shrivel up enough to scrape it off the walls and then hand over to the parasitic/symbiotic worm neighbors when they come knocking because their hosts apparently eat the stuff, yuck, but he gets two eggs from their balcony birds in return so yay!

 

Shiro doesn’t get to Quuduzh in time to partake of the eggs, but Matt’s been spending more time at The Bakery and The Stewery, and Shiro never talked about home when he was at the Garrison and doesn’t talk about it much here either but Matt’s 8th grade class stayed in Liberdade when they went to São Paulo (it was awesome) and he’s tried #19 on The Stewery menu, so…

 

“You’re voluntarily spending time outside your apartment?” Shiro asks incredulously when Matt suggests going out for dinner.

 

“Eena’s my T.A. now but the Hive still sends me things sometimes,” Matt explains, “and I still get a 10% discount at some of their restaurants. I even eat for free if Eena and I meet here instead of somewhere in the university — I guess she lives nearby? I’m a little worried, but I’m not going to ask in case they realize and take it away.”

 

“The Hive?” Shiro asks, looking alarmed, and then: “You got a T.A.?”

 

“Did I not tell you that?” Matt asks. “Oh. Well, settle in, because it’s a story,” and ends up recounting the entire Save-the-Matt campaign to Shiro on the walk over to The Stewery, getting so wrapped up in it that he doesn’t realize until they’re actually in line that he’s been out in public for twenty minutes and he hasn’t wanted to go hide somewhere once.

 

It’s E.G.F.N.D. (Eeli) at The Stewery counter today, leaving E.G.F.N.D.M. (Xi) to deal with the stale-pastry rush next door. Matt can barely remember his middle name some days and Eena’s only been T.A.ing for him for two weeks, but she’s already spent so much time chattering at him about the goings-on of her Hive and the ongoing soap opera of her favorite second cousin Eeli who lives in her building and Eeli’s sexed-her-way-into-the-Hive mate Xi and their daughter Eexi and how some people (greatmother) need to get with the times and embrace mixed-species descendents, we’re a heterogamous species, she just needs to accept that and stop trying to apply old country attitudes to a multicultural multispecies metropolis, she was the one who decided to settle here, that Matt probably couldn’t forget Eeli and Xi (and Eexi, who according to Eeli and her _small talk_ Eena’s projecting her latent reproductive instincts onto) if he tried.

 

Anyway, Eena has made his life SO MUCH EASIER already and Eeli’s kind and doesn’t give him Looks when he dissociates or panics or stumbles in plastered and she never forgets the 10% and always makes sure he has the table with the best sightlines to the door, even if she does talk about his T.A.’s latent reproductive instincts and greet him as “Professor Holt” (which judging from Shiro’s expression, Shiro finds just as weird as Matt does) so he just I’m Not a Slitheen smiles at her and asks for two bowls of #19 and nods along to the latest Eexi Story (who’s apparently taken to jumping off furniture trying to get her stubby you’re-mixed-so-who-knows wings working) while Eeli dishes the soup up.

 

“Are they all like this?” Shiro whispers to him when Eeli goes into the back for the recognizable meat.

 

“Maybe?” Matt says. “It could just be a cultural thing. Although most of the members of each Hive are actually clones of their greatmothers, but they all have really different personalities, they’re really fascinating from a scientific perspective!” and then has to shut up when Eeli comes back with the #19s so she doesn’t take it as an invitation to talk about how Eena could absolutely balance motherhood and academia, she should just go to their greatmother and ask for a baby, we’re not like _some species_ who try to raise children with anything less than sixty secondary caretakers (Xi only has ten parents, can you imagine!), but it’s probably a good thing that he shut up (even though he really wants to keep talking about the clones, because SCIENCE!) because he gets to catch the look on Shiro’s face when Eeli brings out the finished #19s and the smell hits him.

 

“...It’s oyakodon,” Shiro says softly.

 

“More or less,” Matt says as Eeli kicks some younger Xaraz out of his table and they sit down, and he watches Shiro try some and really hopes that he’s gotten this right.

 

“It tastes right,” Shiro says, quiet and suspiciously teary-eyed.

 

He still seems strangely distracted, though, wistful when Matt catches him in odd moments. Faced with the kind of united front of Allura, Keith, Pidge, and Lance, Shiro angrily caved to her position on the Shon Mir situation, but it’s been hard on him, Matt knows from their text conversations over the last two weeks — rubbing him raw in all the places that make him kind in the way that Allura tries so hard to be too but doesn’t always reach and Matt tries so hard not to be but sometimes reaches anyway.

 

“Did something happen on Shon Mir?” Matt asks when he catches Shiro staring sadly into his soup bowl for the fifth time this dinner.

 

“What? No,” Shiro says, but when Matt gives him a Look, Shiro sighs and admits, “I missed my day with Alric yesterday. I thought about making up for it today, but — I missed you, too.”

 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Matt says — and it’s been so good having Shiro here, not just in words and video over thousands of miles but warm and breathing and right next to him, but the whole visit suddenly feels like ashes in his mouth, dead and suffocating, so stupidly selfish of him compared to what Shiro could have had instead. “You can visit me some other time, or we can just vidcom. Shiro, you shouldn’t give up your time with him.”

 

“I see him every day… or few days — but I see you every few weeks,” Shiro says. “It’s a lot harder to get out here than it is to just stay on the Castle with him.”

 

“Yeah, but he’s a toddler and I’m an adult,” Matt insists. “I can manage.”

 

“It’s not about managing,” Shiro says, “it’s about missing you. I don’t want to give up my time with you either.”

 

“Then — bring him the next time you come to visit,” Matt says impulsively. “We’ll skip the sex, go do — I don’t know. What do you do with a toddler?”

 

“Stop them from accidentally killing themselves, mostly,” Shiro says, and his tone is dry, but he looks surprised, cautiously happy at Matt’s offer.

 

“Well, I’m still your backup plan, right? I should probably learn how to do that,” Matt says. “And I bet he doesn’t get many chances to get off the Castle.”

 

“For good reasons,” Shiro says. “He’s moved on from walking to running, and we’re still not sure about longevity, but it looks like he may have gotten Altean strength.”

 

“Allura’s all about that raising her kid as a plebe, right?” Matt says. “You can’t get much more plebeian than this city. It could be fun! I don’t see that side of you much.”

 

Shiro grins. “Matt, do you secretly like my child?”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Matt says. “I have an image to maintain.”

 

As delicious as it is, their dinner at The Stewery still uses up the remainder of his being able to be out in public time, so as soon as they finish their food (Matt stealing the remainder of Shiro’s broth and slurping it down even though he’s already full to bursting, because Shiro was going to _throw it out_ ) they head back to the apartment, Matt holding onto Shiro’s arm for balance (he _really_ has to fix the right prosthesis, he’s going to get another round of pressure sores or just fall and break something) and resolutely not looking up at Shiro towering over him and desperately wishing his brain was less broken and some tiny part of him would stop being afraid of this man he ~~care~~ likes ~~so, so much~~.

 

It turns out to be one of the days where Shiro is just too tired — physically, mentally, emotionally — for sex, and even though Matt’s tired of not having sex with him (for two months!!! or with Allura!!! well, in person sex with Allura, he’s had plenty of vidcom sex with her lately), he’s also kind of glad that it’s a just kissing night and they can sidestep all the… Things they’ve been talking about lately.

 

Besides, Matt will never complain about kissing Shiro; he hoards it like he used to hoard food, anything that could travel stuffed into every spare inch of space on him. Shiro closes his eyes when he’s making out but Matt never does, because he doesn’t want to miss a single second of this: Shiro’s hands under his shirt and Shiro’s little sighs when Matt kisses the hinge of his jaw, feeling the metal reinforcements there move underneath the skin against his lips, even the sadness that flashes across Shiro’s face when their kisses turn open-mouthed and Shiro realizes what was in the cup that Matt’s been drinking from all night, Matt will take the sadness because he wants to take it all, every single part of Shiro, even the parts of Shiro that upset him, the parts of Shiro that still give him nightmares, the parts of Shiro that hurt him. Matt takes and takes and one day Shiro is going to leave because there’s no more of him left to be taken, so Matt’s not going to miss a single second of this, except for how he will, because he doesn’t remember things anymore, he broke and he’s been broken ever since, and the only things he remembers are the ones that he drinks to forget.

 

He’s still not going to close his eyes.

 

 

*

 

 

>CHAT CONTINUED  
  
[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] So my wife Saba went by the bakery on her way back from work so she could try the dumplings. Now she’s stopped complaining about how long  
her trip home is because the dumplings are on the way!  
  
[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Izhbar (my other wife) says THANK YOU for the tip (there’s been a *lot* of complaining).  
  
[schemethedream] no problem! im glad she liked them  
  
[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] And now you can tell the owners you should get a discount because you’re bringing in customers ;)  
  
[schemethedream] ha i already get a discount  
  
[schemethedream] but long story  
  
[schemethedream] anyway  
  
[schemethedream] i think ive figured out how to beat pa’tema  
  
[schemethedream] the only way to beat pa’tema  
  
[schemethedream] IS TO JOIN THEM  
  
[schemethedream] to us. invite them into our strategy sess  
  
[schemethedream] bc otherwise theyre going to KILL US  
  
[schemethedream] unless u think their SO is incompatible w ours?  
  
[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] …  
  
[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] No, judging from their actions over the last few rounds, I think their SO has something to do with technology? They’ve been pushing the schools really hard, but only in regions that are already wealthy and technologically advanced.  
  
[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Just like real life! >:(  
  
[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] My guess is that their SO is to develop some kind of advanced tech — maybe a weapons system, maybe a medical thing, I’ve seen those SOs before.  
  
[schemethedream] okay, here goes…  
  
>CHAT RENAMED: TEAM WE KNOW STRATEGY  
>CHAT MINIMIZED  
>NEW CHAT OPENED: [♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡], [schemethedream]  
>USER INVITED: [fuckyoubusn91]  
  
[schemethedream] hey pa’tema we have a proposal for you

 

 

*

 

 

Shiro spends the next nine days messaging Matt about arranging an Alric Visit, but when the day finally rolls around and Shashis shouts through Matt’s door that xir gamma told xir to tell him that someone is down on the street throwing rocks at his balcony and yelling for him to turn the volume back up on his datapad, it’s Allura who nearly brains Matt with a super-strength pebble throw when he stumbles out onto his balcony to tell them wait, he’s coming down to let them in! When he does — presumably looking puzzled at the Shiro-shaped hole in this picture — she explains that Shiro couldn’t get away, as badly as he wanted to, and Matt wants to brain the idiot himself for completely missing the point of his offer, which was 20% Alric getting another babysitter but 80% letting Shiro spend time with his son without feeling guilty about it.

 

Shiro and Allura had known that they wouldn’t be able to fully be there as parents to any children they had, not as the Black Paladin and the Last Princess of the (Former) Altean Empire. They’d decided to have Alric anyway and they don’t regret it, but Matt knows that their absence still grinds at Shiro, dredges up old pain from his own childhood that he tries to be totally okay with even as it makes Allura tight-lipped with fury, and it’s not a small thing that Shiro is giving up a day with his son so that Matt can have it instead. It’s a 200% Certified Stupid decision and it’s not going to make Matt any less uncomfortable around small children, but it’s not a small thing, and at least Matt’s aware of the enormity of the gift that Shiro’s giving him when Alric peers at him shyly from his mother’s arms, suspicion and fear clearly battling it out with the instinct to be put down to run and wreak havoc.

 

“Um,” Matt says. “Hi?”

 

“This is Matt,” Allura tells Alric. “Remember Matt? We visited him in his sad goat cottage. Say hello.”

 

Alric makes a grumpy noise into Allura’s chest and doesn’t reply.

 

“As you can see, he’s still in what Lance calls his stranger danger phase,” Allura says. “Unless he can run full-tilt at people and knock them over, then he’s quite eager to meet them.”

 

Matt had a vague plan of doing something involving his apartment — he’d powered through his _spending money on nonessentials!!!_ panic attack in the store (and then his _oh god strangers are seeing me have a panic attack in the store!!!_ panic attack) and bought crayons, toddlers like crayons, right? — but he’s suddenly imagining the terrible consequences of Alric introducing himself to Cat and the googleplex of sharp things in his apartment, and he doesn’t want Alric to go splat on the sidewalk if they go up to the rooftop and Alric decides to make a break for one of the guardrail-less spots on the edge. Besides, he has been saving up his able to be in public time today, so…

 

“We could go to the park?” Matt offers. “As long as you don’t mind being the one sprinting after him. I can’t do anything faster than a power walk. Well, limp. I can do a power limp.”

 

“Would you like that, Alric?” Allura asks him.

 

Alric turns away from mashing his face into her breast to stare at Matt, with a look on his face that says that he can see every single one of Matt’s secrets and he’s not impressed.

 

 _I have kinky sex with your parents!_ Matt’s brain automatically supplies, and then Matt frantically tries to un-think it, on the off-chance that young children really do have telepathy like he’s suspected all along.

 

“So… park?” Matt tries. “It has a fountain?”

 

“Oh, excellent, something for him to try to drown himself in,” Allura says, but settles Alric onto her hip and sets off with Matt anyway.

 

According to his datapad, the park in his district really is a short walk from their building, barely five blocks — although for Matt, most days five blocks might as well be fifty — but it turns out to be well worth the trip, because the people of Quuduzh love recreational areas that they don’t have to pay for, and the park has a play area almost as big as one of the lions, complete with a sprawling assortment of structures for spinning and bouncing and climbing and sliding and swinging that would have had kid-Pidge refusing to ever ever ever! leave the park and Matt probably agreeing with them.

 

Alric deigns to let them push him on the swings for twenty minutes, but his real love is the splash fountain, and he spends almost an entire hour running happily through the mass of bigger kids around him, shrieking excitedly every time a jet of water comes spurting up out of the ground next to him. As she predicted, Allura spends the entire time chasing after him, herding him like a sheepdog to stop him from charging off towards parts unknown, while Matt clanks behind doing damage control, righting whatever latest kid Alric’s knocked over before anyone notices that a white-haired, brown-skinned humanoid toddler just sent a gaggle of juvenile Balmerans crashing into each other like bowling pins.

 

“I still don’t understand how this much energy fits in that small a body,” Allura pants out the next time she passes Matt.

 

“I know!” Matt exclaims. “Forget quintessence, you could power the galaxy with toddlers.”

 

But maybe a toddler-powered energy plant would be just as dangerous and explosive, because Alric proves to be just as volatile as any vacuum-sealed case of quintessence when a sudden jet of water splashes right up in his face and his screams of delight turn into instant wails of terror, and Allura has to soothe him for a good five minutes before he calms down, smearing his tear- and snot-streaked face all over her shirt the entire time. Matt vaguely remembers from Pidge how easily toddlers bounce from misery to happiness, but Alric shrieks, “No water!” and clings to Allura when she tries to set him down to play again, so she just sighs and tells Matt, “I believe it’s time for lunch and a nap.”

 

“I think I want a nap too,” Matt says as he limps off with Allura and her cranky barnacle towards the food carts.

 

“If anyone deserves a nap, it’s me,” Allura says. “I was the one running after him for the last varga. You were just walking.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re a warrior in the peak of health and you probably bench-press Shiro in your spare time,” Matt points out. “I’m an almost-middle-aged professor with metal legs who spends his spare time drinking and playing an online roleplay game.”

 

“I don’t bench-press Shiro,” Allura says. “He wiggles too much. Although he is useful for push-ups.”

 

“How many of those workout sessions end with you two doing you-know-what?” Matt asks curiously. “I mean, you probably get pretty tired, but he really likes your strength.”

 

“Enough,” Allura says happily. “And there are plenty of ways for him to demonstrate his appreciation without me exerting myself too much.”

 

“And knowing you, you don’t always make it back to your rooms before that appreciation happens,” Matt guesses, and Allura smirks. “Wow, you could probably just commission that trophy and put it in the common room after all.”

 

“For quite a large ship, the Castle is surprisingly small,” Allura agrees. “I’m not sure why he insists on keeping his skill a secret, though. He really deserves more commendation.”

 

“I commend him a lot,” Matt assures her. “He’s really commendable.”

 

“For a lot of reasons,” Allura says fondly. “You’re very lucky to have him as your father, Alric.”

 

“‘M hungry,” Alric informs them in return.

 

“Has he had his nanobacteria shots?” Matt asks Allura. “There’s probably some toddler-safe food around here. What does he like?”

 

“He’s had his shots,” Allura says, “and he’ll generally eat anything crumbly or sticky, although sometimes he spits it out, I think just to amuse himself and annoy me.”

 

“As long as you don’t spit it out on me,” Matt tells Alric, “you can have all the crumbly, sticky things you want.”

 

“Please don’t promise that,” Allura whispers to Matt. “Apparently human children need to eat at least some plants, but Alric has an aversion and an unfortunately long memory.”

 

“Wish we could trade,” Matt says. “Alric, as long as you don’t spit it out on me, you can have some of the crumbly, sticky things you want. After plants. Vegetables? Probably not just grass. Can Alteans digest grass?”

 

“I probably could if I had any interest in trying it, but I don’t,” Allura says. “Can humans?”

 

“No, but it hasn’t stopped me from trying,” Matt says. “We can eat leather if you can get your hands on it but not the stuff growing pretty much everywhere? Really unfair.”

 

“Then, my darling, you shall get vegetables,” Allura tells Alric, gently bopping him on the nose.

 

“No veggies,” Alric mutters, scowling, but he does end up accepting a piece of flatbread with vegetables baked in and then a skewer’s worth of meat before announcing, “No, no, done now,” and flopping face-down into the grass, eyes closed and snuffling a bit into the dirt.

 

“Wow,” Matt says as he and Allura plop down too. “I wish I could do that too. If I wasn’t so paranoid, I _would_ do that.”

 

“Matt, I’ve seen you do that,” Allura says.

 

“Pretty sure you haven’t,” Matt says.

 

“Considering how drunk you were at the time, I’m not surprised that you don’t remember,” Allura says. “Although you were in the middle of your street rather than the park.”

 

“At least I had you to watch over me,” Matt jokes, but Allura just half-smiles sadly and says, “I do my best.”

 

“I still don’t think any of my neighbors know my first name — everyone just calls me Holt — but I found out that I also have a neighborhood nickname,” Matt says instead of touching the acid burn of feelings in her expression right now. “The drunk with the legs.”

 

Allura snorts. “That’s unfortunately apt.”

 

“I know, right?” Matt says. “If I had an office, I’d put that on the door.”

 

“Do you know if the university’s planning on hiring you as a permanent professor, not just a visiting one?” Allura asks.

 

“Unless I suddenly and miraculously sober up, probably not,” Matt says. “I don’t think I could handle a full class load right now, and they know that.”

 

“You could sober up, you know,” Allura says quietly. “I know that it’s terribly difficult, but we would help.”

 

“Thanks, but I don’t want to,” Matt says.

 

“I don’t understand why not,” Allura says, frustrated.

 

“Because I don’t,” Matt says curtly. “I like drinking.”

 

“You’re not happy like this,” Allura says.

 

“I wouldn’t be happy if I was sober,” Matt says. “I’ve tried, remember?”

 

“You were getting there,” Allura insists. “If you had just stuck with it a little longer —”

 

“It was sixteen days of hell and I relapsed so bad on the seventeenth day that Pidge had to start a field IV so I didn’t go into hypoglycemia-induced seizures,” Matt says flatly. “If the drinking is more evened out, it doesn’t get that bad. I can control it. I can function.”

 

“You really can’t,” Allura says sharply. “I know you don’t like to hear it, but you’re not, and if the university decides that you’re too unstable, I don’t know how much I would be able to intervene.”

 

“Trust me, I’m not the only one there like this,” Matt says humorlessly. “One of the reasons that this city is so crowded is that there’s a fuckton of refugees here. Maybe a tenth of my students have problems too, and it’s even worse with the professors, because that’s what you do, right? Go after the highest educated people first.”

 

He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “There was another professor here who was an ex-rebel fighter, did I tell you that? Apparently she was a pretty respected scholar before the Galra rounded up everyone in her monastic order and put them against the wall, so she taught Middle Period Altean literature here. I kind of knew her from before. Never spoke to her here. I didn’t know what she would do if she found out there was a deserter on faculty.”

 

“I think the rebels have bigger things to worry about than you,” Allura says. “Frankly, you're not a terribly important asset anymore.”

 

“Agreed, but it doesn’t matter,” Matt says. “She killed herself a few weeks ago. Jumped in front of a train.” He snorts. “Stupid. She could have caused a derailment.”

 

“Should we be concerned about that?” Allura asks.

 

“No,” Matt says. “I’ve already had plenty of opportunities to die and I didn’t take any of them. But I’m still not going to stop drinking.”

 

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about one of you,” Allura says, sighing. “Or at least worry about that.”

 

“I still don’t know how you can be with someone like him without the kind of help I drink,” Matt confesses.

 

“I chose Shiro,” Allura says simply. “I can’t choose which parts of him I want and which parts I don’t.”

 

“A-ha!” Matt says. “You see my point.”

 

“Yes, but he didn’t choose his demons,” Allura says coldly. “You did.”

 

“I didn’t choose my demons, I chose how to tell them to go fuck themselves,” Matt says. “It helps. I’m not stopping.”

 

Allura scowls, the grumpy cat face she makes whenever she’s thwarted in her desire to fix every single thing that’s wrong in the world. Tough, Matt thinks; she can topple empires and end blood feuds and *fingers crossed* stop a wealthy but corrupt ally from persecuting its own minorities, but there’s no fixing him and she should stop trying.

 

“Is there anyone here who sells anything sweet and sticky?” she asks instead. “Preferably cold?”

 

“What, for Alric?” Matt asks. “I thought you were pushing vegetables.”

 

“No, for me,” Allura says. “You’ve rather put me off drinking when I need to cheer myself up, but I’ve found the occasional dessert works just as well.”

 

“Drowning your sorrows in syrup, I like it!” Matt says. “Other side of the treeline over there.”

 

Allura looks at him hard for a moment longer, then sighs and leans over to whisper, “Alric, darling, I’m moving you,” and gathers her son up in her arms. Alric grumbles, but stays asleep.

 

“Are you taking him with you?” Matt whispers, confused.

 

“No, here, you hold him,” Allura whispers to Matt, and then when Matt makes a skeptical face at her, she clarifies: “Hold onto him so that if he wakes up while I’m gone, he can’t run away.”

 

“If he wants to run away, I don’t think my puny human body is going to stop him,” Matt whispers back to her, but takes Alric anyway, settling him into his lap as Allura gets up, stretches and groans, and sets off towards the sticky ices.

 

Alric isn’t that heavy, so Matt tries to arrange himself as best as he can to accommodate prosthesis + toddler. He still has no idea what to do with Alric if Alric wakes up, but after a few minutes, he decides that sleeping-Alric is actually kind of… nice. Soothing, like how Bae Bae used to fall asleep in his lap, warm and sighing softly with every breath.

 

But it isn’t long before Alric’s weight starts to go from comforting to ominous, the pressure pulling on the socket seal of Matt’s prosthetics — and this is a Bad Decision, he’s sober enough to recognize that, but Allura’s coming back soon and Altean hybrids are sturdy enough that Alric won’t be immediately crushed if Matt has to roll on top of him and he’d RX’d himself enough to be able to go outside that maybe he can ignore the capital B and D — so after a moment’s hesitation, Matt lays down, flat on his back in the grass with Alric curled in the crook of his arm, one hand fisted in Matt’s shirt and a knee digging into Matt’s ribs.

 

He can’t do anything as stupid as close his eyes, and 40% of his brain that isn’t out to liquid lunch is frantically running scenarios on what happens if he’s attacked right now while the usual 50% is watching, listening, watching, listening, any higher brain functions shoved out the door to make room for raw animal terror. For some reason, though, there’s a little part of Matt that’s quiet — staring up at the blue of the late afternoon sky above him while Alric mumbles and flops around and digs his knee in further, his small body so impossibly enormous in Matt’s arms; something so terrible and incomprehensibly fragile to be entrusted into his care.

 

Eventually Allura returns with sticky ices — one for her, one for Matt — and they scramble to eat them before the ice melts and the sweet root syrup ends up in their laps. Matt’s not very hungry, his stomach still queasy from last night’s drinking and all the exertion at the splash fountains, so he ends up giving half of his sticky ice to Alric, who gobbles it down in an ecstatic frenzy, getting syrup all over his arms and shirt and face and even some in his hair.

 

“Just for that, I’m going to make _you_ give him a bath,” Allura tells Matt.

 

“Better idea,” Matt says brightly. “Hey Alric, want to go back to the splash fountain?”

 

“YES,” Alric shouts, and takes off running in completely the wrong direction.

 

“Oh, I will be revenged,” Allura hisses at Matt, but then scrambles off to chase down her offspring while Matt follows more sedately behind them, stumbling a little but laughing the whole way.

 

 

*

 

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (17:08) im a genius!!!!! :D  
  
**the white knight:** (17:10) I knew that already.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:10) dont know if im that kind of genius anymore but im def a sex genius rn  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:10) a kinky sex genius  
  
**the white knight:** (17:11) ?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:11) unless u want to do impact stuff from the front?  
  
**the white knight:** (17:12) I don’t really want to be making those kinds of decisions.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:12) tough u gotta rn  
  
**the white knight:** (17:15) …No, I’d prefer it to come from behind me.  
  
**the white knight:** (17:15) I’m not sure if that’s really workable, though.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:15) well i think i have an answer ??? to ur cant see me problem  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:16) MIRROR  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:16) BIG one  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:16) u can see me i can see u n i can also do impact stuff from behind  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:16) lol  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:16) behind  
  
**the white knight:** (17:18) …That might work.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:18) can beta test?  
  
**the white knight:** (17:19) Sounds fun.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:19) b checking ur mailbox  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:19) i have other stuff im going to send u  
  
**the white knight:** (17:20) Maybe not from your work mail this time?  
  
**the white knight:** (17:20) Not that I didn’t appreciate it — and Allura definitely did — but I don’t know if the university administration would.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:21) im not going in my personal mailbox its way too crowded  
  
**the white knight:** (17:21) Matt.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:21) shiro.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:24) fine ill use my personal but only bc u dont want uni admin knowing how much u like spitroasting  
  
**the white knight:** (17:24) The only people who need to know that are you and Allura.  
  
**the white knight:** (17:24) And if there’s someone else we’d like to invite.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:24) do u  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:24) i dont  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:25) but obvs if u n allura have other ppl thats fine i cant demand u dont  
  
**the white knight:** (17:25) No, I don’t. I don’t think Allura does either, but I’ll check.  
  
**the white knight:** (17:26) Well, she sleeps with other people occasionally, but she always uses barrier methods and I don’t think she wants to invite any of them into bed with *us*.  
  
**the white knight:** (17:26) You’re welcome to see other people too, of course — casually or seriously. We’re not expecting fidelity.  
  
**the white knight:** (17:26) I’m sorry if we hadn’t communicated that already.  
  
**the white knight:** (17:26) Just let us know for… well, fluid bond purposes, if we ever choose to go there.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:27) …im a lil too drunk to come up w a joke abt that but im gonna and im gonna message it to u when i do  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:27) n AS U KNOW unprotected sex w me s bad idea bc idfk what drunk me does sometimes so fr rn my fluids r stayin all bundled up  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:27) but no i dont want 2 see any1 else. u keep me busy  
  
**the white knight:** (17:28) We don’t keep you *that* busy.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:28) no spamming my datapad w guilt shirogane  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:28) dont need it dont want it  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:29) besides if u wanna keep me busier learn how to vidcom sex  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:29) allura can teach u shes really good at it  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:29) idk how u dont know already, u 2 spend a 1/3 of ur time away from each other  
  
**the white knight:** (17:30) Makes it better when we’re together.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:30) oh yeah speaking of together  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:30) NEXT TIME COME W ALRIC  
  
**the white knight:** (17:31) I wasn’t able to this time.  
  
**the white knight:** (17:31) I want you to get to know him.  
  
**the white knight:** (17:31) But only if you want to too. You said you did?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:31) yeah hes cool but i want u to get time w him too  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:32) i wanna see u gettin ur dad on  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:32) NOT THAT WAY  
  
**the white knight:** (17:32) I wasn’t planning to.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:33) hey shiro know y we should communicate abt other partners n fluid bonding n barrier stuff?  
  
**the white knight:** (17:33) …Why?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:33) bc otherwise we could find ourselves in a STICKY SITUATION

 

*

 

SEARCH: quuduzh used furniture store  
SEARCH: quuduzh used furniture store mirror  
SEARCH: quuduzh used furniture store big mirror

 

“Oh come on —” Matt mutters, because he is way too tipsy to make sense of the blur of text on his dadapad and Quabi seem to have really different ideas about how big is big. He really needs that mirror, though, and he’s not sure how he’s going to find it other than get smashed so he can stand to be out in the furniture district for the hours that it could take to stumble into the store that has what he needs, but he also needs to be sober enough to understand what the fuck he’s buying. Too bad there isn’t a giant Guide to Every Single Thing in Quuduzh —

 

— “Hey aunties?” he asks as he approaches their pemme table ten minutes later, trying to focus on the comforting weight of Cat in his arms instead of the needle-prick nervousness of being out around other people, even though he must look stupid as fuck, a grown man clutching a lizard like a teddy bear. At least Cat seems to like it. “Do you know where I could buy a really big mirror? Really big. Door-sized.”

 

“Why?” auntie #1 asks idly.

 

Matt offers her an I’m Not a Slitheen smile instead of an answer. Auntie #2 guffaws and smacks auntie #1 on the shoulder.

 

“Big enough to see your man in?” she asks evilly. “Or your woman? Or both?”

 

“No?” Matt tries.

 

“Ask Gabar, she’s got a cousin who does dead sales,” auntie #1 advises, and adds when Matt presumably looks as alarmed as he feels: “Selling off stuff of people who died lonely,” which is… uncomfortable.

 

“Who’s Gabar?” Matt asks instead, and that’s how he ends up being formally introduced to one of the hosts of the parasites who live down the hall, except it turns out they’re symbiotes after all — Gabar and Ssshhhd the telepathic worm apparently have an interesting job as a telepathic child trauma specialist, which sounds like hell to Matt but she’s happy to talk at him about it as she taps off a message to her cousin Hebbar on her datapad and then Hebbar messages her back to say yeah, the warehouse has a few mirrors like that, d’you want cheap or pretty? (cheap) and somehow he finds himself at her kitchen table being fed some kind of egg drop soup and nodding along as she talks in her soft voice about how important it is to reintegrate former child soldiers back into community support networks and then Hebbar messages her back to say that they can deliver it next week, does that work? (yes) and Matt wants to go but she’s also feeding him tea and bread to go with the soup and he never passes up free food so he’ll stay until he’s finished and two hours later he’s back in his apartment wondering what the fuck just _happened,_ but he’s got Cat in his arms and a belly full of bread and tea and egg drop soup and a mirror coming next week, so… okay. Guide to Every Single Thing in Quuduzh. Good resource.

 

 

*

 

 

All told, the countdown to delivery and completion of Mission: Sex Mirror isn’t a bad week. He only has three panic attacks, one giant bruise on his hip from tripping onto the edge of his kitchen table, and one going-to-the-Nothing-Place-in-the-middle-of-class episode, and that’s only four minutes — his student Banin timed it, which he’d feel a lot more embarrassed and angry about if Banin hadn’t also done up a scoreboard and then a spreadsheet to go with it at Matt’s request. Matt’s not sure whether he’s winning or losing, but it’s kind of fun to laugh at how much of a human dumpster fire he is instead of drinking about it during the night. He does that anyway, but it’s still fun to laugh.

 

Meanwhile, the broad-leafed greens he planted to shade his bean roots are growing nicely, Pa’Tema is behaving themself and actually has some good strategy suggestions, and he’s gotten to eat for free twice at The Bakery when he met Eena there for Matt Fails At Touching Things sessions. He uses color-coding for his organizational systems, _obviously,_ but Eena’s tactility is much more sensitive than her vision so she uses Braille-like raised patterns to keep track of her various papers and folders and notebooks, and she’s been trying to teach it to him with… mixed results.

 

Things are looking sunny-side up by the day that he carefully and slooooooowly gets off the bus from work (sorry other passengers, but he does not have fully functioning knees!!!) and looks up to see an Uan priestess in her bright scarlet robes leaning up against the side of his building, tapping unconcernedly on a datapad while his neighbors whisper in their doorways and a gaggle of children openly gawk from ten feet away. Matt’s kind of gawking too — Uan priestesses leave their temple maybe twice a year, and definitely not to go hang out outside a random apartment building — and then he gets close enough to see the priestess’s face.

 

“Oh, fuck,” Matt says. “Who died?”

 

“No one you know,” Pidge says. “Are you going to invite me up?”

 

“Mm, probably not,” Matt says. “I don’t want what you’re selling.”

 

“Oh, and you already know what that is?” Pidge snaps.

 

“Well, you’re here, which means you want me for something, you want to argue with me about something, someone’s dead, or…” Matt casts around for any other reason they might show up on his doorstep. “…you found Dad.”

 

“Wow, thanks for that sparkling character assessment,” Pidge says, flatly. “And no, no, no, and no.”

 

“Then why are you here, then?” Matt demands.

 

“Invite me up and we’ll talk,” Pidge says.

 

“I’m not going to change my mind about — anything we fight about,” Matt says. “If that’s what you’re here for, you can leave right now.”

 

“Swear on Green I’m not,” Pidge says.

 

Matt gives them a hard look at that, but Pidge just stares back, and his neighbors are definitely gawking at him now too and he doesn’t want to be gawked at, he doesn’t want to be stared at, he doesn’t want to be noticed at all, noticed means hurt, noticed means death — and before that line of thought devolves into a hideously embarrassing panic attack right out in the middle of his street and worse, right in front of his hero little sibling, he swipes his card at the building lock pad and drags Pidge into the hallway away from all the Noticing. They’re quiet as he makes his slooooooow ascent up the stairs — although Pidge does try to give him an elbow to hold onto until he swats them away — but he fumbles with his apartment keys long enough for one of the aunties to come creaking down the stairs from the roof like a gossip bloodhound, hot on his trail.

 

“Who’s this, then?” she asks, with an all-knowing smirk.

 

“I’m his initiate mother,” Pidge tells her solemnly. “He’s thinking of joining the holy order,” and Matt drags Pidge inside his apartment and slams the door shut before they can say anything else.

 

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Matt snaps.

 

“For what?” Pidge asks, sounding bored.

 

“The entire neighborhood is going to be talking about the Uan priestess who visited me, and I’m going to have to come up with some story that isn’t me contemplating a life in the priesthood, because nobody is going to buy that bullshit for one second,” Matt says. “They’re all going to think I’m fucking a sworn celibate.”

 

“Yeah, your entire neighborhood is going to be talking about your visit from the slutty Uanjit,” Pidge says, rolling their eyes. “Would you prefer they talk about your visit from the Green Paladin?”

 

“I’d prefer they don’t talk about me at all,” Matt says. “Alright, I invited you up, so talk. Why are you here?”

 

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Pidge says, looking around his apartment.

 

“Panicky, drunk, the usual,” Matt says. “You could have gotten all of that from a vidcom call. Why are you really here?”

 

Pidge ignores him in favor of kicking their shoes off and plunking themselves down on his bed, wadding up their skirts so they can lounge back on his increasingly mountainous pile of pillows.

 

“Oh, sure, make yourself at home,” Matt tells Pidge. “But don’t think for a second that I won’t kick you out in sock feet.”

 

“Got any tea?” Pidge asks.

 

“No, sorry, just alcohol,” Matt says. “Lots of it. Want that?”

 

“I can see the spice-tea plants on your balcony from here,” Pidge says, looking unimpressed.

 

“Right, because you know what a spice-tea plant looks like,” Matt says.

 

“I do,” Pidge says. “Shockingly, I know a few more things than I did sixteen years ago.”

 

“Why are you here, Pidge?” Matt asks. “I know it’s not for tea with your brother.”

 

Pidge narrows their eyes at him in consideration, then after a moment: “I know Shiro and Allura have been coming here,” which is a sentence that strikes fear into every grimy corner of Matt’s soul until Pidge follows it up with, “and I want to know why.”

 

“If they’re in Quuduzh, that’s news to me,” Matt lies, as cool as he can considering his heart rate just kicked up to roughly 400 bpm. “I don’t know why you expect me to know what they’re doing here, it’s a big place. I barely know my neighbors, much less everyone who comes in and out of the city. Anyway, I haven’t seen Shiro or Allura since I left the Castle.”

 

“Oh, fuck off, I’m not an idiot,” Pidge says, scowling. “They don’t have business here, official or unofficial; they don’t exactly go jaunting off for fun; and it hasn’t been once or twice, one or the other or both of them come here like clockwork, but only since you moved here. They’ve been visiting you. Why?”

 

“How do you even know they’ve been in Quuduzh?” Matt asks. A terrible thought occurs to him. “Did you put trackers on them?”

 

“So they have been here,” Pidge says.

 

“Answer the question,” Matt says, glaring.

 

“I didn’t put trackers on them,” Pidge says, although Matt doesn’t believe them for one second. “But it’s not that hard to run a navigation history on a cruiser docked in your own ship, even if they did try to wipe it. Neither of them are exactly wizards at technology. Now answer my question,” and it’s Pidge, they’re not going to leave until they get something, anything, and he’s sure as fuck not giving them —

 

“Alric,” Matt blurts out.

 

“Alric?” Pidge demands.

 

“They have about ten million contingency plans for the kids if something goes wrong, and I’m one of them,” Matt says reluctantly. “They started visiting me for that and we got to be sort of friends again.”

 

“You’re their contingency plan,” Pidge says, disbelievingly, and then a moment later: “You’re _friends_.”

 

“Yeah, I was surprised too,” Matt says.

 

“Why didn’t they tell me, then?” Pidge asks. “I understand why you didn’t tell me, you don’t tell me shit anymore, but they still talk to me.”

 

 _You were the one who stopped talking to me_ , Matt thinks uglily, but doesn’t he actually feel like getting into a screaming fight today when the auntie probably has an ear to a tea-glass pressed against his door. “Nobody knows who I am anymore, so no one would guess that they’d send the kids to me in their doomsday plan — the rocks fall, everyone dies, Lotor captures all of you and/or kills you doomsday plan. It’s need-to-know information.”

 

“And I don’t need to know?” Pidge demands. “I’m family.”

 

“No, you don’t need to know,” Matt says. “You’re not entitled to everything in my life because you’re my sibling.”

 

“I talking about them,” Pidge snaps. “I’m their family too. Fuck, I’m more Alric’s family than you are!”

 

“Not according to Shiro and Allura,” Matt says nastily, but immediately regrets it at the stricken look on Pidge’s face, because he knows that Pidge has the same feelings towards small children he does — I don’t know what I’m doing please someone else deal with this!!! — only magnified x10, and he can’t imagine having that attitude towards Shiro and Allura’s beloved son has left Pidge in their good books. “I’m sorry, Pidge, that’s not — they don’t think that. It’s… the whole point is for Alric to go to someone who isn’t family — someone nobody knows or gives a shit about. That’s me. That’s why they chose me.”

 

“…Wow,” Pidge says after a moment. “You apologized for something.”

 

“You can get one freebie,” Matt says. “It can be your birthday present.”

 

“Ugh, never mind, you’re still an asshole,” Pidge says disgustedly, rolling their eyes. “But there are people who give a shit about you, even if you want to pretend that there aren’t.”

 

“Then I feel sorry for them, because that sucks,” Matt says.

 

“The only person you feel sorry for is you,” Pidge snaps. “If you actually felt sorry for anyone else, you’d stop this.”

 

“This?” Matt demands.

 

“This,” Pidge hisses. “All of this. This… pride, or stubbornness, or passive suicidality, or whatever your deal is, getting angry at me for wanting to help —”

 

“Pidge, we aren’t going to argue about this,” Matt warns them.

 

“— like it’s totally unreasonable for me to want to not lose the only family I have left —”

 

“Okay, I’m not the only family you have left, you literally just said that,” Matt snaps despite himself.

 

“— and I know you don’t care about me anymore, but I do still care about you —”

 

“You said we weren’t going to argue about this, you swore on Green,” Matt says desperately, “and anyway, it’s not going to work, you’re not going to argue me into being better —”

 

“— and I’ve spent sixteen fucking years waiting to hear that you’d been killed in action or died on one of those stupid smuggling ships or knifed in some alley or fell down that hill on that stupid goat moon when it was dark and you were drunk or passed out outside there and froze to death —”

 

“Seriously, just fucking accept that there are some things you can’t control and just move on!” Matt snaps. “Move the fuck on!”

 

“ — or maybe I just wouldn’t hear, maybe you’d just disappear again —”

 

“Pidge, it’s not going to work,” Matt nearly yells, “it never works, so just stop —!”

 

“— and I’m sick of it, I’m sick of waiting and worrying and watching you do this to yourself, it’s just stupid and self-centered as fuck when you have people who want to help —” and Pidge keeps talking but Matt trails off, Pidge’s voice just buzzing incomprehensibly as he stares at the bloody red stripe running from their mouth to their chin — and it’s just paint, he knows, part of this cult’s costume, a reminder of the centuries past when they honored their war goddess with bloody teeth and flesh torn off their enemies instead of the rose-colored bread baked in their temple ovens today, but all he can see is Pidge with blood on their mouth, all he can see is his sibling —

 

“Can you take that off?” Matt bites out, gesturing to his mouth. “Please?”

 

Pidge looks furious at the interruption, but they must see something in his expression, because they stare at him silently for a moment and then, “Yeah, fine. But it’s oil-based paint.”

 

“Well, choices are cooking oil or soap,” Matt says. “And I reuse my cooking oil, so it’s got bits in it.”

 

“Gross,” Pidge says flatly. “How many times have you given yourself food poisoning?”

 

“None,” Matt says proudly. “My digestive tract is a thriving biome.”

 

“Somehow I doubt that,” Pidge says, but accepts the soap that Matt fetches for them from his bathroom, sniffing it suspiciously before beginning to scrub away at their chin while Matt leans against the counter and desperately tries to reroute at least a little bit of his brain processor power away from thinking about that bottle of rocknut spirits he bought the other day and put… somewhere, because he needs that brain processor power to make Pidge leave so he can go find it.

 

“You swore on Green you weren’t going to argue,” Matt says after a while.

 

“I’ve sworn on Green about a lot of things,” Pidge says, craning their neck to try to see their blurry reflection in one of Matt’s pots. “She doesn’t care.”

 

“I bet you’ve never tried that on Red, though,” Matt says.

 

Pidge snorts. “I’d be dead. Red takes oaths seriously.”

 

“Did you fix the problem with her proximity sensors?” Matt asks.

 

Pidge pauses and frowns at him.

 

“Shiro told me they were glitching,” Matt explains.

 

“I didn’t realize he talked to you about that stuff,” Pidge says, staring at him strangely. “Or… any stuff.”

 

Matt shrugs. “We talk. He tells me about Castle stuff, I tell him about stupid work stories. Maze is making him reread the Fullmetal Alchemist manga with her, so I’m making him watch the anime with me. The second one, obviously. We tried the first one, but he said it was too confusing to watch it and read the manga at the same time.”

 

Pidge raises an eyebrow. “So Shiro comes here to… gossip and watch tv?”

 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Matt says, leaving out the fact that he and Shiro do those remotely and what they do in person is… slightly different.

 

“And Allura visits to what, catch up on her soaps?” Pidge asks.

 

“Explore, eat, and pretend to be a pleb,” Matt says. “She’s still not that good at it, though. She doesn’t get the concept of waiting in line. Or pocket money.”

 

“Ugh, I know, it’s really annoying,” Pidge says, rolling their eyes. “And she never says that she doesn’t have any until the bill comes, so everyone else always ends up paying for her.”

 

“Exactly!” Matt exclaims. “And being incognito means she can’t pull the ‘I’m saving your bacon from the Galra, so give me free food’ routine either.”

 

“Has anyone ever recognized her?” Pidge asks.

 

“City of ten thousand refugees and twenty thousand rumors,” Matt says, strategically omitting the fact that it's also the city of two nosy Aunties. They're just frail old women; frail old women aren't that hard to deal with. “It’s not a bad place to hide in plain sight.”

 

“Allura chose well,” Pidge says. “Ish.”

 

“I chose well,” Matt says. “She didn’t rehome me, I’m not a parakeet.”

 

“I’m sure that’s what you think,” Pidge says. “And no one’s noticed Shiro either?”

 

“He puts makeup on his scar when he visits,” Matt says.

 

“Right, because that’s the most noticeable thing about him,” Pidge says.

 

“So what, now that you know, you’re here to tell me that all of this is a bad idea?” Matt asks. “I already know that it’s a bad idea. It involves me, so…“

 

“I’m not saying that,” Pidge says.

 

“Pretty sure you are,” Matt says.

 

“Well, I’m not going to pretend that I think it’s a great one,” Pidge snaps. “You can barely take care of yourself, and they’re going to give you a baby?”

 

“I’m growing four varieties of cold-climate greens in a tropical monsoon city,” Matt says. “A baby can’t be that much harder. Besides, I’ve met Alric. He’s not that bad.”

 

“I live with him, and he is that bad,” Pidge says. “And Xio and Maze aren’t that easy either.”

 

“Take it up with Shiro and Allura if you’re that concerned with their welfare,” Matt says. “But if you’re just using as an excuse to guilt-trip me again, don’t.”

 

“They should have told me,” Pidge says. “It’s not like I can’t keep a secret. I keep secrets better than they do. Well, better than Shiro.”

 

Matt shrugs. “They were doing it for you. One less thing that could get tortured for.”

 

“I would never give the kids up,” Pidge says, glaring, although they’re a lot less scary with a soap bubble beard. “Or you. Besides, I think the Galra would have bigger priorities than a few kids, and nobody tells the truth under torture anyway.”

 

“Sometimes they do,” Matt says.

 

“Not often enough to not make that a shitty excuse,” Pidge says. They rinse off the last of the soap, reaching for a nearby towel.

 

“Cat peed on that,” Matt warns them.

 

“…You have a cat?” Pidge asks.

 

“I have a lizard,” Matt says. “Her name’s Cat. She’s been marking things lately, I think it’s hormones.”

 

“Why did you even agree to do this, Matt?” Pidge asks.

 

“She was cheap and keeps the bugs down,” Matt says.

 

“Agree to be their… whatever. Emergency babysitter,” Pidge says. “Are they paying you? I have money, I can help with anything you need —”

 

“I don’t need money,” Matt snaps, even though he probably does. “And they’re not paying me.”

 

“Then why?” Pidge asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Matt says. “I guess it just seems like the right thing to do. I do that once in a while.”

 

“Offer to adopt strangers’ children?” Pidge asks.

 

“The right thing,” Matt says. “And they’re not strangers.” He pauses. “They were, when they asked me. But not anymore.”

 

“If you really want to do the right thing for them —” Pidge starts.

 

“Pidge, don’t —” Matt warns.

 

“Get help,” Pidge says. “Let me help you. You can stop all this, Shiro and Allura wouldn’t have chose you if they didn’t think you could pull it together when you needed to — I guess you need to now, so just —”

 

“Leave,” Matt tells them.

 

“Matt,” Pidge says.

 

“I told you I’d kick you out and I would,” Matt says, “so this is me doing it. Go away.”

 

“Or what?” Pidge asks.

 

“Or I disappear again,” Matt says flatly. “And you won’t find me this time.”

 

“I thought you wanted to do the right thing,” Pidge says.

 

“I said I do it sometimes,” Matt says. “Not all the time. I’m not one of those people.”

 

“You could be,” Pidge says. “If you just fucking _tried_ —”

 

“I won’t,” Matt says, because he knows better to tell them _I can’t._

 

Pidge silently puts on their shoes. They don’t reapply the paint, just pin the veil across their nose, and Matt wishes that he didn’t know them well enough to still see every word they want to say to him loud in their eyes.

 

 _I’m sorry,_ he thinks. Three syllables. He blurts out three times that just putting in his breakfast order at The Bakery. It wouldn’t be a lie; it hasn’t been a lie for almost twenty years. But Pidge wouldn’t understand, can’t understand, Matt thanks the universe that they can’t understand, and all Pidge hears is _I’ll stop,_ and Matt won’t. He can’t. So it’s better this way.

 

“Don’t try to disappear again,” Pidge tells Matt. “I’ll just find you. I always do,” and then they’re gone, and Matt almost trips over his chair as he springs up to scramble through the cabinets for the rocknut spirit he squirreled away.

 

It’s easy to find it, just shoved behind the mostly-empty sack of dried beans. He’s not that clever when he’s drunk (or when he’s sober). Rocknut is worse than jackfruit and its spirits don’t taste any better, but the first sip is like the first real breath after a panic attack and he’s never tasted anything sweeter.

 

“Great fuckin week,” he tells Cat, and the last thing he remembers is toasting her lizardy health before he’s swept away into the black and blessedly silent void.

 

 

*

 

 

It started small. The last few missions had left everyone a little on edge, too many close calls and enemy forces popping up in places that their information had told them should be clear, and Matt just… wasn’t feeling great. A little shaky at the edges, maybe; a little too distractible. He hadn’t been sleeping well — hard to fall asleep without the lights on, waking up in the middle of the night from unsettling dreams he didn’t quite remember — and he’d been getting a lot of headaches, pain in bones that’d been broken but had long since healed, a touch of nausea any time he ate any of the food goo (the consistency was just… weirdly off-putting).

 

The headaches were probably just the lack of sleep, though, and his digestive system had never been quite right since the camp, so it wasn’t anything to worry about. It made sense that he was a little jumpy, his instincts still keyed-up from the recent missions. He just needed to get more sleep and he’d bounce back to normal.

 

There were chemical dispensaries in the Castle that could formulate basically anything from Lance’s testosterone and ADHD meds to sleeping sedatives that Shiro refused to use for some reason. Matt tried the sleep meds, and those helped for a few weeks, but he kept having to up the dose to get them to work and eventually they stopped doing anything other than give him a massive groggy-hangover the next morning, so… hmm. Thinking cap!

 

Everyone in his family ~~had been~~ was a little high strung at times. His dad read (and reread) Dostoyevski to unwind. Pidge just stayed up for 72 hours straight until she crashed. His mom watched The Great British Bake-Off, but once in a while she’d add a G &T after a really stressful day in court. Matt’s usual thing was audiobooks, but he’d tried that too, and they were about as helpful as the sleep meds. He couldn’t concentrate enough to follow them, and he could only have one earbud in at a time because not being able to hear what was going on around him made him weirdly nervous. Reading didn’t help either — the words just blurred together, and he found himself reading and rereading entire pages and not understanding any of it.

 

Staying up for 72 hours was the exact opposite of what he was trying to do, but C2H6O was just another chemical, the Castle could do that easily, so he went down to the dispensaries and punched in his selection and mixed it with fruit juice from the fridge to cut the taste, and it helped, awesome! The world was just… nicer after one drink, everything less _serious,_ and two drinks soothed his twitching nerves enough for him to drift off to sleep. It didn’t really help with the daytime twitchiness, but he’d get over that soon, so the war kept going and they all kept fighting and Matt woke up every day being so fucking proud of his little sister and once in awhile when everything happened a little too much he went down to the dispensary and had a nightcap or two.

 

But the daytime twitchiness didn’t stop, and the nighttime twitchiness got worse, and everything stopped happening a little too much and started happening so much, and so he just… upped his dose. Three drinks instead of two. Four nights a week instead of three. Started a little earlier in the evening. He never let it interfere with his work, was always sober on mission and around the rest of Team Voltron, especially around Pidge, even though that meant cutting down on their evening Holt Hangout Time.

 

The headaches and nausea and joint pain stuck around, but that wasn’t a big deal, he’d lived with a lot worse. Maybe he was a little slow in the mornings, but at least he was getting sleep, although he wasn’t staying asleep anymore — his dreams were going from unsettling to upsetting, and he was remembering more of them when he woke up. He wasn’t eating very well either — he wasn’t going to ask for different food when there was perfectly good food to be had, that was stupid and selfish and wasteful, but the only way he could stomach the food goo now was if he watered the consistency down to liquid and he started to throw that up sometimes anyway, which was even more stupid and selfish and wasteful. He was dropping weight and that was bad, that was dangerous, but he could still fight and the Castle wasn’t going to lose their food supply _(wait, were they? were they were they were they —)_ so it was fine; he’d get over whatever rough patch this was and gain it back.

 

No big deal. He’d just lean a little harder on his anti-twitch. The only way out was through, right? And it was stupid to make the trek down to the dispensaries every day, that wasn’t time efficient at all, especially when Team Voltron had so little of it — jumping from one battle to the next and then the next with gritty eyes and aching muscles, and they were supposed to be winning but it never felt like it, just chasing one long streak of blood across the galaxy. Why waste it wandering through the silent maze of Castle passages every night? The dispensaries didn’t restrict how much of any formula they could make at one time, so he just filled up a few big bottles of C2H6O and trekked it back up to his room. Efficient and convenient! Well done, Matt.

 

And it wasn’t like it was impairing his judgment or anything — it was making it even better! He could actually _think_ without the… whatever was starting to scratch at the corners of his mind. Trickling a little alcohol into his morning routine made the day to come seem so much easier, and then starting to swing by his room after lunch for a little more made that even better, every problem a little softer and simpler:

 

The starving rebels in N3 were pillaging from the locals? Well, as long as they don’t set anything on fire too. Leave the seed stores and bare minimum of livestock and a promise that a winter under them was better than a life under Zarkon. Uprising on Hinne in favor of the Galra? Peace talks, peace talks, Hunk barely escaped a palace in flames, send in air support. The Castle flies over what Matt thought were mountains until he realized that they were bones? Don’t look, Pidge, don’t look, but Matt couldn’t look away — but it was okay, he was fine, it was just striking, the crop yields were going to be amazing in such a well-fertilized area, ~~he didn’t wonder who those bones belonged to, he didn’t wonder if his dad—~~

 

And he wasn’t exactly sober on mission anymore, but not in any way that really mattered. His B.A.C. may have objectively been a little >0.00%, but he was still a deadly fighter and a talented decryptionist _(even if was making more mistakes than usual)_ and at least a decent tactician _(even if he was making more mistakes…)_ and a valuable asset to Team Voltron, he made a real difference, they were going to win this war and he was going to help, and after a few drinks he could actually believe that.

 

He wasn’t exactly sober around Pidge anymore either, but they probably wouldn’t even notice, considering how well he was doing, so well that it surprised even him. Everyone around him remarked on it — remarked on it without quite remarking, because nobody wanted to put words to the metamorphosis of the boy he was at nineteen to the man he was at twenty-one, nobody really wanted to know what had happened in that chrysalis _(but Matt used to raise butterflies so he knew, the caterpillar liquefies, disintegrates until there’s nothing left of what it was, a slush of blood and guts that comes out bright and dazzling and delicate)_ which was fine, because there wasn’t anything to know. He’d gone through ~~hell~~ bad times and come out with a growth spurt and a wicked scar and badass staff fighting skills and that was it. Even Shiro remarked on it, a few quiet words and a smile that made Matt warm down to his very atoms, even if he had to take a few steps backwards whenever Shiro talked to him these days because wow, Shiro was still tall. And big. And strong. And sometimes that was just a little… overwhelming.

 

“I’m glad you’re settling in so well,” Shiro told him, a gentle hand on Matt’s shoulder that Matt wanted to lean his entire body into, even if he started sweating and his heart started pounding but he’d had a crush on Shiro since basically forever, or at least since Shiro turned 18 and learned how to smile, so of course Shiro was overwhelming this close. “I was worried, but — you seem like you’re doing really well. I’m glad.”

 

And Matt was. He was! He definitely wasn’t sober on mission anymore, and he’d given up trying to squash his drinking into some sort of schedule because that was unfair to it and unfair to him, he was just denying himself something good for sheer stubbornness, and he’d stop if it was actually a problem, but it was the total inverse of a problem because he was doing great. Team Voltron wouldn’t understand, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them OR hurt Matt and he was good at sneaking things on the sly, he’d practically gotten a PhD in Sneak on the Sly at the camp, learning how to drink only when the guards weren’t looking, learning how to swallow without chewing, learning how to hide food stolen or traded for anything he could think of to make or fix or do; after all that, sneaking from Team Voltron was easy peas. He carried a water bottle on him. Hydration was important.

 

Pidge wasn’t easy peas, though; Matt may have had a Sneak PhD, but Pidge had at least a Master’s with plenty of on-the-job experience, and she started frowning at him in odd moments, then frowning all the time, until every time he turned around he found her staring at him, and she was his sister, but it didn’t matter, he nearly begged her to stop staring, stop _noticing_ , she was his sister but he can’t be noticed, he _can’t_ — and he started spending more and more time in his room, even though they all knew where to find him, because at least it locked from the inside, and if he turned off all the lights except a tiny penlight clutched against his chest and wedged himself into the corner of his bunk and pulled most of the covers over him and didn’t move and didn’t make any noise, maybe they wouldn’t realize that he was there.

 

He didn’t need to leave his room other than for missions, anyway; he want to talk to anyone anymore, or socialize, not when Pidge kept trying to talk to him about those two years, as many times as he’d exasperatedly explained to her that he was fine, that the bullet had come close enough for him to feel the breeze on his cheek but he’d dodged it. He was sick of having the same conversation ten thousand times, especially when he was technically sleeping but never felt rested and technically eating but only when his stomach didn’t hurt or he didn’t feel like hurling — so maybe once every one or two days — and his head was always throbbing and he was injuring himself with his staff almost as much as he hit his enemies, like two years of fighting had just disappeared and he was nineteen again, freshly liberated from the camp and frantically trying to learn how to use the cheapest weapon possible because he was frightened and full of rage and he was going to make them pay for what they did to him, to his dad, to Shiro, to everyone, he would be a spark in the fire that scoured the Galra evil from the galaxy ~~and if he learned how to fight he’d never be helpless again~~ but even that wasn’t going so great lately — his unlucky streak was still going and for some reason he was getting assigned fewer real missions, more grocery runs, and even those seemed harder than they used to be, his judgment was still fine and his mind was still sharp but there were so many more details, everything always too fast, too much, and okay, maybe a little lower B.A.C.? let’s try that, but that was so much worse, _so much worse,_ he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, _PLEASENODON’TPLEASE,_ he can’t —

 

So back to the water bottle, but it was fine, he was fine, the water bottle wasn’t a problem, it was the inverse of a problem, he was great. He could still do what they needed him to, he could still be the person that they needed him to be, he was a scientist and a spy and a rebel fighter and a leader and Pidge’s brother ~~and his father’s son~~ and he’d gone through some shit but he was fine, he’d survived, he’d adapted, he’d evolved, he hadn’t left any mangled parts of himself behind in the cages or the mud of the camp or the darkness of the camp barracks or the smoke and screams of the battlefield or the blank staring eyes of the people he killed or the blank staring eyes of the people he’d been too late to save or his dad whispering _I love you, Matt, I love you, I promise I’ll find you!_ before they were dragged apart and thrown into separate transports or his friend Tzi raped and beaten to death by the guards or Root who’d given him his first meal after he’d been liberated from the camp shot so many times her guts were splattered across the entire room or the wailing grandparents of the Galra informant his squad had left swinging from the village gate as an example — he was fine, he was whole, and the Paladins started looking at him weirdly and Hunk kept asking him if he was okay and Shiro stopped smiling at him and Pidge kept telling him that he needed to stop, that she could help him, _please , Matt, let me help you!,_ but they’d all gone through some shit and they were all were fine and he was fine too, and the drinking helped him be fine, the drinking _made_ him fine, so really, that was an argument for doing it even more —

 

— and then suddenly it wasn’t a problem, it was a Problem, and he couldn’t do what they needed him to do or be the person that they needed him to be, and he wasn’t fine at all.

 

 

*

 

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (18:19) pidge visited  
**me, an intellectual:** (18:19) think u n allura r gonna want to vidcom me fr this 1

 

 

*

 

 

“They did what?” Shiro hisses.

 

“Pulled the navigation history from your cruiser,” Matt repeats.

 

“They pulled the navigation history from our cruiser?!” Shiro shouts.

 

“Uh, yeah, I just told you that,” Matt says. “Twice.”

 

“That is so incredibly unprofessional and unethical and just… being a bad friend,” Shiro fumes.

 

“Agreed, but I also don’t know why you’re so surprised,” Matt says. “When has Pidge ever let social conventions stand in the way of getting something they wanted? Honey badger don’t give a fuck, and neither does Pidge.”

 

Beside Shiro, lounging back against her pillow throne, Allura snorts in amusement. For once she and Shiro are actually both on the Castle at the same time, so they’re taking his call from their rooms, or more accurately, from their bed, with its happy excess of pillows and soft blankets and prints and colors that Matt would suspect Allura had deliberately staged as Matt-bait if 1) Shiro wasn’t a quietly but deeply sensual person who has strong feelings about blanket softness and makes up for his grey and black clothing with colorful everything else, 2) Allura didn’t have a pathological need for 12+ pillows, and 3) Matt hadn’t seen a lot of this bed in various stages of messiness, also on vidcom calls, although those involve the same amount of Allura but no Shiro and a lot less clothing.

 

This is probably (???) not going to turn into one of those, but it’s still nice to see them there. They look well-rested.

 

“So what did you tell them?” Allura asks as she pats Shiro on the shoulder consolingly.

 

“I told them the doomsday plan,” Matt says proudly. “Give up one secret, they’ll think they’ve won and stop digging for more, right?”

 

“...Oh,” Allura says, and the playful air between them suddenly drops into a brisk arctic chill. “Did you.”

 

It had seemed like a great plan right up until now, but as he watches Allura go from amused to something carefully neutral Matt rapidly realizes 1) great plans made by drunks are bad plans and 2) he should have stonewalled Pidge to buy him time to talk about this with Shiro and Allura, because they probably prioritize the survival and safety of their child over Matt having to have an awkward conversation with his sibling about who he’s been fucking.

 

“But I’m realizing now that I should have talked to you first,” Matt hastily adds.

 

“Yes, you should have,” Allura says coolly. Shiro looks more forgiving — or maybe he’s still just distracted by the cruiser thing — but Matt can tell that Allura sees the glaring Alric < Matt inequality as clearly as he does, and she looks thoughtful rather than furious, but Matt’s not sure if that’s “how shall we peacefully resolve this pickle?” or “hmm, shall I send assassins to kill Matt or shall I just do it myself?”.

 

“Am I going to wake up murdered?” Matt asks her glumly.

 

“No,” Allura says, although he can see that a little part of her wants to, even though he’s a… whatever he is to them, because he dared to (even unintentionally) threaten her son — that flinty ruthlessness of hers that she’s so careful to keep away from any steel, except the coolly considered times she’s decided that she needs to burn that motherfucker down.

 

Team Voltron has been to other realities. Matt wonders how many of them have an Empress Allura. Maybe 10,000; maybe just 10. She works so hard to not fulfill her destiny, and in this reality he’s pretty sure she’ll succeed.

 

Pretty sure.

 

“So this leaves us… where?” Matt asks delicately.

 

“This leaves me very unhappy with you that you’re unilaterally making decisions that affect all of us,” Allura says. “As to what it means to our plans for Alric and the other children… I’m not sure.”

 

“Well, people still think I’m some random nobody,” Matt says. “A drunk nobody with metal legs and too many panic attacks in awkwardly public places. I don’t think anybody knows that I used to be part of Team Voltron — or even remembers that I ever was. But some of the people in my building know who you two are.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be concerned about that,” Allura says dismissively. “Ulin is addressing it.”

 

“Are they going to wake up murdered?” Matt asks, alarmed, because he knows Ulin the spymaster’s lieutenant, and even with all the things he’s done, even though technically he spent some time reporting to her, he still doesn’t even like being on the same planet as her. “They’re… okay people. I’d rather be the murdered waker up-er.”

 

“Ulin is addressing it peacefully,” Allura clarifies. “And creatively.”

 

“Yeah, that’s the part I worry about,” Matt mutters.

 

“It’s been quite successful so far, and I have full faith that she will continue to keep it that way,” Allura says. “And to be frank, most people who remember you from your time with us think that you’re dead, but I’ll make sure that Ulin addresses you as well.”

 

“Creatively?” Matt asks gloomily.

 

“And peacefully,” Allura reminds him.

 

“Let’s hope she can do it long distance,” Matt says. “I know that she’s a useful monster and all, but I’d still really like her to not be alive. At least not alive anywhere near me.”

 

Allura mms in a way that makes him wonder how much full faith she has in Ulin after all. Ulin’s plans may have plans, but Allura’s plans have plans3, and Allura certainly doesn’t have to trust someone to use them. Maybe she just has full faith that Ulin will be Ulin.

 

“So yeah, Ulin, peaceful Ulin — gosh that really doesn’t sound right — and the anonymity of being the drunk with the legs,” Matt says. “And now Pidge knows about the doomsday plan. Shiro, any thoughts?”

 

“Why didn’t you just tell them we were friends?” Shiro asks quietly — and oh, now Allura looks as uncomfortable as Matt feels, solidarity, yay, unexpected emoting is unexpected. “Not mention Alric at all? Or tell them that we were —” Shiro pauses. “That we do what we do.”

 

“I didn’t think it was any of their business,” Matt says, trying to sound like it was a calculated decision instead of an instinctual duck and cover from the immediate foghorn of panic blaring through his head at the idea of telling Pidge about… whatever was in that pause.

 

“That we were friends?” Shiro asks, and oh, now he’s not sad, now he’s _pissed._

 

“No, but they’d ask how and why and I’d need a week and ten notepads to come up with a plausible lie about why you’d ever reconnect with me in the first place,” Matt says. “They wouldn’t buy that you were visiting me for that moon’s famous goat by-products.”

 

“You could have told them that I wanted to make amends,” Shiro says. “They’d believe that.”

 

“Maybe, but that’s not their business either,” Matt says. “That’s between you and me.”

 

“Everyone was there when I started remembering things. Everyone knew what I did,” Shiro says, and then amends: “Most of it.”

 

“The most isn’t their business, and you didn’t come to make amends, you came to ask for a favor and introduce me to your family and then have a really emotionally intense kinky threesome,” Matt says, “so anyway it’s beyond the point,” even though he knows it’ll never be beyond the point, because guilt is the gravity that binds them together, Shiro attracted and repulsed equally enough to stay stuck in Matt’s orbit.

 

Shiro opens his mouth to argue, but Allura cuts him off with a gentle hand to his chest.

 

“My shuttle is leaving far too early tomorrow morning,” she tells Shiro firmly. “If you want to continue this argument — again — you can do it somewhere else.”

 

“I don’t,” Matt chimes in.

 

Shiro glares. Trust him to get angry at someone for stopping him from feeling miserably guilty over them.

 

“We, however, will continue our previous conversation,” Allura tells Matt, looking supremely unamused. “Not tonight. But soon.”

 

“It’s probably about time anyways,” Matt says glumly. He’s been dodging the Boundaries and Expectations Talk like blaster beams in a firefight, but it looks like he just got hit. Hopefully ‘tis but a flesh wound. “Time and place TBD? It doesn’t have to be that soon. I know you guys are running around a lot with the whole Shon Mir thing.”

 

Allura gives him a Look that says she can see through him clear as borosilicate. “Shiro?”

 

“To be determined soon,” Shiro says firmly, and he and Allura sign off, the bee-oop of the vidcom loud in the quiet of Matt’s apartment as Matt heavily hauls himself up to go do his nightly bare minimum of Adult Things. He’s learning that he has to do professor things in the magic afternoon hours when he still has energy to think,

 

 

because Eena is the farthest thing from a stern taskmistress possible but she does have the pitiful-eyed taskmistress down pat, and Matt’s still fine with screwing himself over but he’s kind of sick of taking his students for the ride.

 

His to-do list for tonight isn’t looking that bad, anyway. He already triumphantly crossed out

  
(whoops no he unplugged that for the vidcom call with Shiro and Allura, have to do that again)

(he’s not being cute, he has a very professional relationship with his garden, it’s just easier to keep track of all of his plants if he gives them names)

 

so now he just has to

 

and optional

(not to attack, to ride on his shoulder; he’s getting tired of carrying her if he needs to go outside alone).

 

He doesn’t get around to — that is also something that needs to happen in magic soberish hours — but he manages everything else, scrubbing away at his laundry in the sink, the quiet slosh-slosh broken only by the faint noise of the streetlife above and below, the distant clanging of bus-bells. The stars are out and the streetlamps are on, and it’s the hour where his neighbors cluster on their rooftops to grouch and argue and laugh over tiny cups of bitter tea, passing bottles of cloudy white spice-spirit back and forth while their children sleep downstairs.

 

The walls of this building are about as noise-dampening as a house of cards, but after a few months here, Matt’s gotten used to tuning the baseline hum out. For some reason, though, it bothers him tonight, and he keeps going to open the windows, then close them, then open them again, and eventually just ends up slumped in the chair out on his balcony, wrapped in the cool, smooth shawl Allura had left here last time and swigging occasionally from his own much cloudier bottle.

 

Thousands of light years away, Shiro and Allura are probably settling into bed. Matt hasn’t been back on the Castle for sixteen years and he’s never been in their bedroom, but they’ve stayed overnight with him, and he can imagine them changing into their pajamas, chatting a little, getting kicked in a few uncomfortable places when Alric inevitably decides that starfishing between them is much more comfortable than sleeping in his own bed, as many times as they explain that he can’t sleep with them because his papa gets scary nightmares and could hurt him by accident; Shiro reading him about ten thousand bedtime stories instead while Allura takes off her jewelry and unpins her hair and then switches off on Alric-duty so Shiro can struggle to remove eyeliner so everything-proof that it stays perfect during battle.

 

Matt knows that he has no right or reason to feel excluded, and he’s not self-centered enough to think of Shiro and Allura’s home life as some great conspiracy of domesticity, or having anything to do with him at all. They have their lives, and he has his, and whatever thing is scratching at him tonight isn’t their fault or their problem. He doesn’t want what they have, anyway; it’s stupid to be angry at them for having it. But at the end of the day, they have each other and a son and a family, and he has a lizard and some laundry and a cloudy bottle he can keep drinking from for the rest of the night, listening to the distant shouts of night workers and delivery trucks rumbling through the quiet streets while the streetlamps flicker off, on, off, on, and the river shines black like an oil streak in the distance.

 

 

*

 

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (23:21) okay d now?  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:24) I’m not sure that I understand.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:24) Do you mean that your boundaries in bed have changed?  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:34) Or simply that you want pictures?  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:35) If it’s the latter, I’d be quite happy to oblige!  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:35) But later. I’m in the midst of a diplomatic function right now.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:35) important diplo function?  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:36) Decidedly not.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:36) my bed bounds r NOT changed that’s not the d i meant  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:36) or ur d  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:37) altho yes send pix those r always fun  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:38) ;)  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:38) nice emoji  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:38) ;P  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:39) V nice  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:39) They’re somewhat rudimentary pictograms, but they’re still charming.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:39) d = determined  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:40) to d now. have th boundaries n expectations talk now  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:40) …I assumed we would have this in person.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:40) With Shiro present and involved.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:41) me too but i was panic just thinking abt that n u probs want me soberish so long distance? easier less hyperventilating more remembering tmrw  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:41) It *is* a good sign that you can spell hyperventilating correctly.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:41) soberish!  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:42) besides shiro n i already talked abt some of this stuff  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:42) Such as?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:42) fidelity n fluids basically. n whether u 2 wanted to have this a temp (or perm?) 4+ some. i dont. shiro said he didnt n hed check w u???  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:43) I’m not opposed to the idea — occasionally and recreationally, not with any emotional investment — but certainly not if neither (or either) of you aren’t interested.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:43) I do sleep with other people without Shiro present. Not lovers — acquaintances. Sometimes strangers if I’m shifted enough to have anonymity.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:43) i know shiro told me  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:44) I haven’t had any lovers or partners myself other than him. I’m open to the possibility should I find someone compatible, but given the political ramifications of any relationship I undertake, it would have to be very carefully considered. It might not be worth the problems it could cause. I was lucky with Shiro.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:44) Although I might have gone ahead with him even if it had caused problems.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:44) hes worth problems  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:44) :)  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:44)  <3  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:45) Did Shiro talk about this with you?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:45) ur crazy sex politics? yeah he told me abt some1 — sibiez?  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:45) Sibieaz.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:45) she sounds cool???  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:46) She is, but I was referring to his attitude towards other lovers and partners.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:46) no just fluid stuff. he said u use barriers?  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:46) Always with others. Usually with him.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:46) hes got a THING  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:47) Exactly.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:47) But I always bioscan beforehand, just in case.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:47) good i dont wanna get space junk yuck  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:47) more than i already do at least  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:47) dont worry im bein responsible n gettin tested n stuff  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:48) n he said he wasnt sleeping w any1 else?  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:48) Not that he’s told me.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:48) so no hes def not  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:48) I don’t see the point of secrecy in these matters.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:49) We have an agreement. We tell each other about our individual bedmates, we discuss any potentially shared bedmates and any emotional or logistical complications, and we don’t have any children outside our relationship.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:49) whew good  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:49) not GOOD NO KIDS EVER or NO MIXED FAMILIES but wow politics  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:50) Exactly.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:50) It has been offered. Or requested.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:50) Particularly by those… enamored of the old Altean Empire. And of my people in general.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:51) yuck  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:51) thnks 4 not fueling the fires of species supremacy  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:52) You’re quite welcome.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:52) It’s also been requested of Shiro, but usually for more aesthetic reasons.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:52) And yourself?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:52) believe me nobodys requesting any babies from me  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:53) As regards your desire for other partners and bedmates. And children too, I suppose.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:53) well im not gonna b a dad ever but im not allergic to them like pidge is  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:53) They practically sneeze every time Alric is in the same room.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:54) just give em time lil kids freak em out they’re r tiny n weird n incomprehensible n pidge has capd so can never understand what kids r sayin until 6yrsold ish  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:54) capd?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:54) auditory processing disorder. or something like it dx is hard but anyway their brain hears weird. accents, +2 ppl talking at once, lil kids,  
background noise, all difficult  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:55) They’ve never mentioned that. And they’ve had plenty of opportunity to do so.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:55) p had an iep but school gave em shit 4 it so p just doesnt say anything anymore n deals w it by themself  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:55) tellin u bc u prob think p hates him they dont they just dont know wtf 2 do w him give them 6-10yrs  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:56) I’ll admit that the thought had crossed my mind.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:56) So thank you.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:56) Although I’m assuming that you want me to keep it a secret that you told me?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:57) p meddles in my life all the time n i did this 4 good so nah tell em, theyll b mad at me but if theyre havin probs u guys could help w comms or something  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:57) i dont have capd lil kids r just hard idk w to do w em  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:57) but id figure it out if i had 2 w doomsday plan, n alric is cool  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:58) shiro wants me t get t know him  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (23:58) alric not shiro. i know shiro already, hes cool too  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:58) Is that something you want?  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:59) Alric, not Shiro.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:59) I know you want Shiro ;)  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (23:59) But Shiro has certain ideas of how things are supposed to go and they don’t always match up to what people actually want. I don’t want my son getting swept up in that.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:00) ?????  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:00) You don’t have to have a relationship with Alric to have a relationship with Shiro.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:11) Matt?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:13) alrics cool. im not gonna adopt him if thats what shiro wants or cook him if thats what ur worried abt but sure bring him to q w u (not me alone w him!!!!), hed prob like 2 go to the park again  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:13) He would. He hasn’t stopped asking to go back since we left.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:13) fr 2 weeks????  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:14) Yes.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:14) i know i fucked up w p. no more tellin ppl abt doomsday plan, promise  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:14) every1 here just knows that were doin sex n that u 2 r a couple so if any1 asks ill just say hes ur kid which every1 will buy bc nobody but u 2 could have made that beautiful a bb  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:15) ?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:15) u made a beautiful superbb. dont lie u know it  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:15) Lance calls him the power baby.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:15) EVEN BETTER!!!  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:16) Do you have other partners or bedmates, or planning to do so in the future? (Or simply open to the possibility?)  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:16) You said you discussed it with Shiro, but I’d rather hear it directly from you.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:17) abrupt topic change but ok  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:17) neither now n not delib looking either, im good w just u 2  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:17) i guess open???? mb???? but EXTREMELY unlikely  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:18) May I ask why?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:18) im… a lot  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:18) n u guys already know everythin i dont have 2 explain me  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:19) I would imagine Shiro feels the same way.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:19) except hes off sleepin w u n the galaxys political elite  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:19) Not always the elite. But always with me.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:20) He’s free to take his own lovers, of course, but he never has before.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:20) ur his poly safety blanket! :)  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:20) As I said, he’s a lot. And I certainly enjoy his presence when he chooses to join me.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:21) bet they enjoy his presence too  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:21) Of course :)  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:21) I don’t have any patience for those who don’t.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:21) … ok that sounded really threatening  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:21) u dont assassinate ppl who dont find shiro sexy, rite?  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:22) I do not.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:22) But if they say that they want to sleep with us both but only truly desire me… I’m not kind.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:22) im scare  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:23) but also not bc i desire both of u a lot so no prob  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:23) You do know that you’re going to have to tell all of this to Shiro.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:23) that i desire him a lot? TRUST ME HE KNOWS  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (24:23) This conversation.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:24) yea def, well talk n ill fill in th parts we didnt talk abt before  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (24:24) n dont worry. itll b comprehensive.

 

*

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (14:57) hey shiro do/r u gonna sleep w other ppl than me n allura?

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:02) shiro????

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (17:34) … is there a reason ur bein cagey abt this?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:35) im not accusing u or anything like that  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:35) or judging. im just asking  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:36) no judge matt thats me  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:37) matthew no judgement holt  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (17:37) my real middle name just dont ask pidge they lie

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (18:09) ok i got stuff 2 do n things 2 drink so just msg me back when u want 2 ill probs b asleep or in class but ill keep an eye

 

 **the white knight:** (21:17) Matt, I wasn’t being cagey. You messaged me in the middle of a firefight.  
  
**the white knight:** (21:17) I just got back to the Castle and out of debrief and medical a few minutes ago.  
  
**the white knight:** (21:18) I’m sorry that I can’t respond to everything immediately. It’s the job.  
  
**the white knight:** (21:18) And no, I’m not sleeping with anyone other than you and Allura, and I don’t have any intention of doing so.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (21:21) y  
  
**the white knight:** (21:21) What?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (21:23) Y  
  
**the white knight:** (21:23) Yes?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (21:25) y noone els e  
  
**the white knight:** (21:25) Have you been drinking?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (21:27) ye so ?????  
  
**the white knight:** (21:27) I’d prefer to have this conversation sober.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (21:28) iSH  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (21:28) n i was soberish earlier so ur bad  
  
**the white knight:** (21:29) It’s not my bad that you drink. That’s your bad.

 

 **the white knight:** (21:54) I don’t want to be with anyone else. That’s all.  
  
**the white knight:** (21:54) Have you had any water?

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (22:07) u trustnme so ok alric  
  
**the white knight:** (22:07) Okay Alric?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (22:10) brin th fanm u w toi qudu  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (22:10) fc how splel  
  
**the white knight:** (22:10) Quuduzh?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (22:11) YEHA!!  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (22:11) alura ni talkd sk her sh nknows  
  
**the white knight:** (22:12) I’m not bringing him to Quuduzh when you’re like this.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (22:15) dont  
  
**the white knight:** (22:15) I want him to get to know you, but not this version of you.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (22:19) k  
  
**the white knight:** (22:19) Please drink some water?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (22:23) shro  
  
**the white knight:** (22:23) What?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (22:25) FIN  
  
**the white knight:** (22:25) What?  
  
**the white knight:** (22:29) Matt, are you still there?

 

 **the white knight:** (23:45) Matt? Are you okay?

 

 **the white knight:** (24:20) Matt?

 

 **the white knight:** (1:59) Matt?

 

 **the white knight:** (3:09) I’m going to bed. Message me when you wake up and see this, please?

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (7:25) im not dead yet!

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (8:39) that was a really bad joke sorry

 **me, an intellectual:** (8:39) i just fell asleep  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:40) i hope you’re still asleep. dont wait up for me next time, k?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:40) ill b fine ive survived this long  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:41) i wont tell anyone else abt the doomsday plan  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:41) n if u still want me to get to know alric i want to too  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:42) not like adopt him. but also not sell him on the black market. gtk him  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:42) i had some things i was going 2 send u but im smart so ill wait  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:43) (yes from my personal mail dont worry)  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:43) lmk if were still on for FM tomorrow nite? (i have pemme tonite) n ill b less drunk i promise  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:44) ok g2g AM class calls. say hi to allura n alric n black n urself.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (8:45) matthew no judgment holt signing off

 

*

 

Gabar’s cousin Hebbar turns out to have a typically Quabi definition of what a six-day week is, because it takes a full nine days after the still-inexplicable Egg Drop Soup Incident for the big sex mirror to arrive on Matt’s doorstep, wrapped in a dingy and slightly deflated packing bubble wedged into the Jenga tower of furniture in Hebbar’s tiny delivery truck.

 

Matt can forgive the timing, though, because Hebbar also apparently defines “really big” as “GIANT” — easily 4Wx10H, so tall Matt’s not even sure that it’ll clear his ceiling, much less fit through his door, but he really hopes it will, because GIANT is big enough for Shiro to see every part of himself and Matt in when they do… impact, and that greatly increases Matt’s chances of not having his face smashed right through the back of his head in a supersoldier PTSD-induced panic.

 

Thanks to the aunties, everyone in his building old enough to understand why 2 attractive visitors + 1 giant huge mirror = GOOD TIMES more or less knows why Matt’s buying it (he really hopes it’s less) and he gets plenty of catcalls and commentary tossed at him across the interior courtyard as Hebbar’s crew laboriously hauls the mirror up the stairs, nearly shattering it about thirty times in the process, and unsuccessfully tries to maneuver it this way and that to get it into Matt’s apartment until Hebbar shows up to possibly bend time and space to get it through the door.

 

They don’t stick around long after getting paid, and then Matt’s left staring down the giant piece of specular reflection propped up against his wall while Cat hisses and croak-barks at the strange lizard that’s suddenly appeared up in her domain. While its size is awesome, the mirror itself isn’t the most beautiful he’s ever seen — it’s cracked across the very top left hand corner and missing any kind of frame, and it’s in serious need of a wash, but he’s not doing anything involving that corner and he doesn’t need it to be fancy and he knows how soap works, so it’ll be fine, he has a giant sex mirror now, yay!, one more thing crossed off the list that Matt’s trying hard to think of as a countup instead of a countdown, so he gets out his datapad to snap a quick pic and send Shiro a message.

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (18:07) giant sex mirror arrived!!!!  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (18:07) [img attached]

 

It isn’t until after he’s sent Shiro the pic that Matt notices that the camera angle caught him in the mirror’s reflection, blurry and halfway out of the frame but still recognizable. And it’s not that he’s been avoiding facing the mirror, exactly, he just naturally sidesteps anything that might cause him to confront his own existence as flesh-and-blood-and-rusting-metal physical being that people can judge and hurt and trap instead of an invisible cloud of anxiety and alcoholism drifting through life free from judgment and safe from ever being caught, from ever being held — but looking down at the brown-peach-turquoise-grey blur at the edge of the photo, Matt belatedly realizes that the consequence of buying a giant sex mirror and propping it up against the wall in the middle of his one-room apartment is that he’s going to see himself in it on a regular basis, which had somehow never crossed his mind during the entire planning and execution of Mission: Sex Mirror. Mission: Sex Mirror was for Shiro. Mission: Sex Mirror was all about what Shiro wanted, what Shiro needed, what made Shiro feel safe — and now Matt may have invited something into his home that wasn’t safe at all for Matt, because he may have just invited himself.

 

Deep breaths. In hold out hold in hold out hold in hold. He exists, he knew that already; he doesn’t want to, but he does, he left money in Hebbar’s pocket and knowledge in his students’ heads and water in Cat’s bowl and bruises on Shiro that Shiro touches when he thinks people aren’t looking, an amorphous cloud can’t exert the physical force to break capillaries and go to the bank. Hi, my name is Matt Holt and I am a physical being.

 

Besides, Shiro and Allura see him on a regular basis and they don’t run screaming. Ulin is small and pretty and NATURE/nurture and not all monsters look monstrous, but Shiro and Allura fight some monsters and work alongside others and they know the kind all too well, there’s nothing that horrible lurking in this mirror because if there was Shiro would have turned up on Matt’s sad goat moon and taken one look at Matt and left, he would have never trusted Matt with anything, much less his son, and Matt would still be on that moon, trying to make his food stretch and his days short. Matt can trust them, and it’s that thought that makes him sidle into range of the mirror and look up at the man staring back at him.

 

He’s older. He’s got deep lines carved under his eyes, delicate lilac circles of sleeplessness, the beginnings of crow’s feet, a mottled yellow-purple bruise high on his hairline from where he fell on the stairs last week. His prosthesis still don’t look right, too short for the rest of his body; safer, lower center of gravity, but unsettling. He’s more freckled than ever, and his skin is dotted with old, silvery scars and the long one slicing through his jawline on the left, deep enough to still be a faint pink decades later. The people in his family have always gone grey early — the curse of redheads everywhere — but his hair is still red-brown, long enough that it curls at the ends instead of flips up, nearly brushing his shoulders, and in contrast with his turquoise shirt — another one of Allura’s “diplomatic gifts” — it’s as bright as a copper penny.

 

He looks like a real person.

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (18:13) sex mirror selfie!  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (18:13) [img attached]  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (18:15) That’s a lot of clothing for a sex mirror selfie.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (18:15) other sex selfies later  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (18:15) fr now im sending u photographic proof that i didnt give the shirt to cat fr her rag nest. now shiro will stop making sad eyes whenever he looks @ my laundry  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (18:18) Good. The color suits you.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (18:18) Eight varga meeting with angry armed representatives from bitterly opposed ethnic factions selfie:  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (18:18) [img attached]  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (18:19) hey i think ive seen that selfie before  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (18:19) [img attached: Grumpy-Cat.jpg]

 

Even with his big moment of self-realization and the blurry picture that he immediately took and sent off to Allura to prove to himself that it was nbd, peace sign and big grin! :D (and immediately delete from camera roll), the sex mirror’s presence over the next few days is… A Lot. He’s never quite out of sight unless he’s in the bathroom with the door closed, and some little part of his brain keeps screaming at him that he’s being watched, followed, judged, like the sex mirror is the Eye of Sauron and not an inanimate piece of silver-backed glass.

 

It makes the apartment brighter, though — sunlight bouncing off it into dark corners that wow, he really needs to clean, that’s some serious grime down there, but maybe Gabar eats that stuff too? He’ll scrape it off and ask her, or maybe he’ll just bribe Shashis with Cat Time to scrape it off for him, his back is fucked enough that he can’t get down there to clean now that he suddenly wants to. Matt has the glum suspicion that any attempted dealings with Gabar are going to result in him being whisked into her kitchen to be fed and socialized, but it might be worth an hour of Gabar’s soothing Therapist Voice to get something out of the de-griming other than a little less well-bred disgust in Allura’s face whenever she looks around his apartment. Besides, he survived the last time, and he likes eggs!

 

 

*

 

 

Gabar doesn’t eat the grime — too moist, apparently — but Ssshhhd’s cocoon-mate’s host Zkel does, so she graciously puts Matt’s battered food storage tub in her cooler and hands him two eggs in a tin that he’s instructed to return “next time” and a bowl of egg drop soup that he should eat while it’s hot, she always makes too much and it doesn’t keep well, does he want red tea or green tea?, sit, sit, Shashis let the man hold on to his lizard now, you can feed her later but here’s a sticky-ball for working so hard to clean Professor Holt’s apartment and another for your sister, I’m glad she’s out of the nest and feeling well again, go on, give it to her and don’t eat both yourself, Ssshhhd’ll know!, and then Ssshhhd wakes up from its nap to query Matt about what he thinks of the City Council changes (Quuduzh has a City Council?) and the plan to “encourage” (threaten) the “squatters” (residents) to leave (their homes in) the Teardrop shanty town in the most low-lying part of the city (but where the fuck else are they supposed to go?) because look at what happened the last time the great floods came (but where the fuck else are the people supposed to go?) and Matt still wants to leave but he has opinions and Gabar has more soup and apparently all three of them have students and clients who live in the Teardrop and it’s a strange feeling to be angry over the safety of people he’ll never meet, an old feeling, pins and needles in parts of him he’d thought were permanently numb, but he’s not going to go with his squad to blow up the City Council blood on the floor brains on the ceiling, he’s just half-yelling over a bowl of soup with his lizard in his lap and a child trauma specialist and her telepathic symbiotic worm nodding along and saying ba, ba, yes, ba, agreed, but it’s good.

 

And the soup is good, too. Can’t forget the soup.

 

 

*

 

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (20:09) [img attached]  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (20:09) spot th difference!!!  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (20:22) Quiznak. I can look at your floor now.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (20:22) u could see my floor bfore i dont have THAT much stuff  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (20:25) You have very little possessions at all, in fact.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (20:25) I meant that I could see the floor before, but now I can bear to look at it.  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (20:26) Will you be available later this week? Now that Pidge knows, we have slightly more flexibility to come and go as we wish.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (20:26) fr a visit from u 2? YES  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (20:26) And Alric.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (20:07) ???  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (20:07) You told Shiro that you’d enjoy getting to know him. He’s very excited by the idea.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (20:07) who shiro or alric  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (20:10) I would wager you know which one.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (20:10) i still dunno y shiros so into this but ok i did say i would n i meant it so let the games begin  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (20:11) actually what games DOES alric play?  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (20:11) im guessin hes not old enuf fr scrabble  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (20:20) No, he is not.  
  
**me, an intellectual:** (20:20) ok i cant do pattycake or coordination games but i guess i can do peekaboo and other stuff  
  
**made of ☆stuff:** (20:25) I’m sure you’ll do fine.

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:38) …r u SURE hes too young fr scrabble?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CWs: PTSD symptoms; mention of panic attacks; explicit alcoholism; slight body horror; referenced violence against adults and children; referenced rape. As happens in this chapter, Pidge’s name, pronouns, and gendered familial terms change in accordance with how they identified at the time. This isn’t how all trans and/or nonbinary people conceptualize themselves (or want to be conceptualized by others), but it’s how Pidge rolls.


	5. Bat (Dry Season)

 

To Matt’s simultaneous discomfort, sexual frustration, and quiet happiness at watching Shiro and Allura get to be parents instead of politicians, Alric not only comes along with his parents next time, but the family-friendly outings to Quuduzh become a regular thing, and Matt walks the route from his building to the park so many times that he wakes up one groggy weekend morning to quickly discover that he was apparently so smashed last night that he couldn’t remember how his building keycard worked but could find his way to the splash fountains just fine, which he knows because he’s lying on top of a jet and they all just turned on.

 

Shiro still doesn’t let Alric anywhere near Matt when Matt’s been drinking too heavily — there’ve been a few times when Shiro and Alric turned up at Matt’s building only for Shiro to take one sniff of Matt and turn right around to head off into Quuduzh without him, but it’s not like Matt ever  _plans_  to be drunk when Alric’s around, it’s just sometimes everything is A Lot and his head is A LOT and he’s just trying to get it down to lowercase, Shiro, I would’ve been even worse if I’d stayed more sober, please don’t be mad — but other than that, Shiro’s still the determined captain of S.S. Matt Gets to Know Alric for reasons that Matt doesn’t understand and doesn’t really want to, because there’s a lot of parts of their relations them that Matt just Doesn’t Think About, and Shiro’s eagerness for Matt to bond with the person that Shiro cherishes most in the world is right up there with whatever dark squirming thing is driving Matt to go along with this sex mirror + (Shiro x [force]) plan.

 

Even squashed under the weight of Shiro’s hopefulness, Matt is actually open to getting to know Alric (as long as no one ever leaves Alric alone with him). He quickly learns why his parents planned to have only one child and Pidge just happened as an oops, though, because toddlers  _never stop._

 

Matt’s spent his entire life hungering for something or other, knowledgefoodjusticeinformationsafetyalcohol, hunger that made him study and sob and steal and kill, years in the camp and the rebel bases surrounded by people with that same manic fire in their eyes, but he’s never met anyone or anything as ravenous as Alric, who grabs up the world by the chubby fistful, gorging himself on new words and experiences and information.

 

Of all the panicked consequences of Getting to Know Alric that cycled through Matt’s head when he realized that Shiro was actually  _serious_  about this, “feeling stupid” wasn’t one of them, but Alric demands answers like Matt’s a candidate on Jeopardy — “Why ‘range?”; “Because they painted it that color?”; “Why?”; “Because they liked that color?”; “Why?”; “Because they did?”; “WHY?” — and talks to Matt not just in Universal and English but also Altean and Japanese and Spanish because Altean-Human hybrid toddler brains are just as much little language sponges as 100% Human ones and Alric more or less speaks all of his parents’ and caretakers’ languages so he assumes that of  _course_  Matt does too, and then either gets cranky and frustrated or laughs hysterically while Matt tries to formulate any kind of response.

 

Even if he hadn’t pickled his gift for languages and then lost the jar, Matt wasn’t going to become fluent in tonal, extremely intricate High Altean any time soon, no matter how encouragingly Allura smiles whenever he attempts to pronounce something as complex as  _Hello_ , and that handsome Japanese transfer student with the heavy accent may have inspired him to delve into the wonderful world of anime (though he wasn’t a  _weeaboo,_  THANK YOU VERY MUCH PIDGE), but unfortunately neither subbed anime nor his pants-throbbing crush on Shiro improved Matt’s actual language skills, and if those didn’t do it, Matt really doubts that Shiro’s cranky polylingual toddler will either.

 

If nothing else, Matt’s getting an education on the composition of his neighborhood, because “Alli” hurdles right through his stranger danger phase to I’M SMALL AND VERY ADORABLE, ENTERTAIN ME YOU FOOLS MUAHAHAHA!!!! and Matt’s neighbors just fall over themselves to do so, which despite requiring Matt to do social interaction is a nice breather considering that a good third of the time entertaining Alric during these visits is Matt’s job.

 

“Who’s that?” Matt asks, pointing to the Xaraz at the bus stop.

 

“Eep,” Alric shouts.

 

“2 points, they all look alike if you can’t see their markings,” Matt tells him, and points to the woman down the street sunning herself on her front stoop. “And who’s that?”

 

“Rrree!” Alric yells. Rrree bobs her head in a hello.

 

“1 point for Rrree plus 2 points for Eep, you have 3 points, how many fingers is that?” Matt asks, and Alric triumphantly gives Matt the middle finger before adding two more.

 

“Are you trying to teach him addition?” Shiro asks, bemused. “He’s a little young for that.”

 

“We’re playing Rolodex,” Matt explains. “I’m too tired to take him to the park and he’s too hyper to go down for a nap, this was the easiest thing I could think of quickly. He gets points for everyone he recognizes. It’s entertaining AND educational! Anyway, ‘how many’ isn’t addition, it’s number recognition, that’s developmentally appropriate, and he’s already learning math from observing the world around him so it’s good to specifically stimulate his memory and self-awareness and mathematical skills and no Alric don’t put that in your mouth! Shiro, make him put it down!”

 

If genetics have any play in personality, Allura’s definitely beat out Shiro’s, because Alric is what Matt’s mom would have described as “a handful and a half” and what Matt would probably round up to five handfuls. He’s stubborn, mischievous, self-important, and gleefully dishonest, although unlike his mother he’s terrible at deception, breaking into giggles right after he protests that no, that wasn’t him that did whatever he definitely did do.

 

Matt still has no idea how much to believe or indulge him, and Shiro and Allura are exactly 0% helpful — no, Shiro, I’m not a  _natural_  and I’m not going to be one no matter how many times you repeat it — but in a way, Matt grows to like Alric’s self-centeredness, his shamelessness at demanding whatever he needs (or usually, wants). Matt’s spent so many years surrounded by people who lived in the dark crawl-spaces of the things they didn’t say, the gaps where their memories and hopes and griefs were packed away, dusty and mildewing. If Alric wants to say something, he’s going to! Many times! LOUDLY!

 

Shiro believes you should talk politely and discreetly around children, but Allura swears like a soldier and thought it was funny when Lance’s daughter learned to do the same,  but not so funny when it’s her son yelling “QUIZNAK!” at the top of his lungs in random places and chortling to himself while she frantically shushes him.

 

But sometimes it’s not funny at all. Alric’s favorite games are:

 

  1. splash fountain
  2. synth-sand box
  3. walk stop walk hop hop hop! (Matt doesn’t participate in this for obvious reasons)
  4. Allura shifting funny faces at him
  5. kick the squishy inflatable ball way too hard at Shiro, sometimes fall over
  6. try to chase after Matt’s neighbor’s pets
  7. sing-a-longs to really graphic traditional Altean children’s songs (a little worrying, but Shiro and Allura have apparently had a lot of arguments about cultural heritage vs. nightmares and Allura won)



 

but by far Alric’s favorite game is play-pretend, and what he pretends is mostly what he sees the adults around him do. He cooks and knits and flies the Castle and tinkers around with a set of soft toy tools that Matt reluctantly bought after he discovered Alric busily stabbing away at a piece of wood with a screwdriver that he found who knows where, and then one day Matt looks over to see Alric hunched in a corner hugging his knees, shaking himself back and forth and breathing like he’s running a marathon.

 

“Is he alright?” Matt asks Allura, alarmed, and Allura nods and looks conflicted and after a moment she says, “I think he’s pretending to be you.”

 

 

*

 

 

Matt tries hard not to be jealous of Alric. He really does. It’s not Alric’s fault that he’s a toddler and he needs so much from them and it’s a good thing that his parents adore him. That’s why humans survived, anyways, brains chemically tricked into loving these loud little helpless things, and Matt’s plenty bloody but no bleeding heart anymore but he’s seen plenty of kids who didn’t have parents to adore them and he’s glad that Alric does, not just because physical touch and socialization will make Alric’s brain healthier and possibly put him at less risk for hypertension, not just because Shiro and Allura get  _whatever_  they get out of being parents, just… because.

 

There are still moments when Matt would happily ship him off to the nearest asteroid, though, just to get a minute of Shiro or Allura’s undivided attention. The family-friendly visits make them happy, less guilty, but they also make Matt feel about as interesting to them as a piece of furniture, any Matt-time shoved aside by the huge, blinding-bright love they have for their son, and once he blacks out and wakes up the next morning to discover a really smeary

 

sign pinned to his door with a paring knife.

 

“Did something happen?” Shiro asks, frowning, tracing over the stabs and gouges in the blue-whorled wood (apparently it took a few tries for Matt to finally nail the note).

 

“Drunk me,” Matt explains. “Soberish me needs to get tape. Or maybe pushpins? I like those! They’re really definitive.”

 

Soberish Matt doesn’t get tape or pushpins, but a few days later, he gets a message in his inbox that there’s a package for him waiting in the faculty mailroom. It’s plain, sterile white with a printed label and no return address, but he opens it to find paper tape and cloth tape, mounting putty,  industrial-strength sticky strips, boxes of pushpins in different shapes, a set of coat-size adhesive hooks guaranteed to stick to any kind of stone, a bright blue-and-green stripe padded case, just the right size for the datapad that got cracked last week when his work bag smacked against a metal bus seat, and buried at the very bottom of the box, a note.

 

 

*

 

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:19) NINAAAAAAAAA ;;_;;

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:19) n dont pretend shirogane i know ur cryin

 **the white knight:** (21:20) Of course I’m crying.

 **the white knight:** (21:20) But I’m mostly angry.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:20) @ her dad?

 **the white knight:** (21:21) No, at Scar. (And at her dad.)

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:21) y scar??

 **the white knight:** (21:21) For killing a child! (And a dog!)

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:21) it was a mercy kill

 **the white knight:**  (21:22) Did he ask if she wanted mercy? No. He didn’t.

 **the white knight:** (21:22) You can have chronic pain and have a life.

 **the white knight:** (21:22) I don’t ask you if you want to be mercy-killed.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:23) hey some days id take u up on it

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:27) … that was a joke

 **the white knight:** (21:27) Good.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:27) wow whats up ur butt tonite shirogane

 **the white knight:**  (21:27) Hopefully Allura, if she’s going to come to bed like she said she would.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:27) u know u could just go find her n do it there shes into that

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:28) REALLY into that

 **the white knight:**  (21:28) I like having sex in beds. Beds are comfortable.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:28) tru

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:28) but i meant ur ~DEMEANOR tonite is all >:(

 **the white knight:** (12:31) Had my annual medical physical yesterday.

 **the white knight:** (21:30) Talking to doctors is… frustrating.

 **the white knight:**  (21:30) They always want more tests, more scans, more procedures, more meds, more “interventions” (surgeries!).

 **the white knight:** (21:30) I’m not going to let them change or “fix” anything about my body and they won’t leave me alone about it.

 **the white knight:** (21:30) So yes, I’m a little snappish today.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:31) i didnt realize ur mods were messing w ur bod that badly

 **the white knight:** (21:31) They’re not. Everyone’s just making a big deal out of nothing.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:31) but u identify w ninaxander a lil bit dont u

 **the white knight:** (21:32) A little bit.

 **the white knight:** (21:32) Maze does too. It was a difficult part to read with her.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:32) of course it was

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:32) ur country is bursting w cute lil sports manga but EVERYTHING u read w maze is difficult. and dark af!

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:33) u 2ve read akira, death note, now fm — whats next, attack on titan?

 **the white knight:**  (21:33) Yes, and Beserk. She can handle two series at once. They’re classics.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:33) naturo? bleach? sailor moon?

 **the white knight:** (21:34) I’ve tried. She’s not interested, at least right now.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:34) if she goes goth lance is gonna blame u

 **the white knight:** (21:34) Probably, but I don’t care. Maze would be a cool goth.

 **the white knight:** (21:34) Actually, speaking of which, she has a question for you.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:35) ……..ok????

 **the white knight:**  (21:35) Any favorite colors? (Or very bad colors?)

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:35) why does she wanna know????

 **the white knight:**  (21:35) Stalled artist seeking prompts.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:36) turquoise, cool greens, warm n cool blues, warm n cool yellows, white, silver, copper, black

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:36) no to red, orange, purple

 **the white knight:**  (21:36) Not a yes to brown?

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:36) no??????

 **the white knight:**  (21:36) You wear… a lot of it.

 **me, an intellectual:**  (21:37) cheap, doesn’t stand out, doesn’t show dirt

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:40) even tho alluras trying to make me wear not-dirt colors

 **the white knight:** (21:40) You look good in actual colors. I’m taking her side on this one.

 **me, an intellectual:**  (21:41) v unfair

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:41) besides she should stop buying me random shit i didnt ask for n dont need

 **the white knight:** (21:41) You do actually need clothes that aren’t falling apart, but that’s beside the point.

 **the white knight:** (21:42) She does this for everyone.

 **the white knight:** (21:42) And we get a lot of diplomatic gifts that we don’t have any use for, and we can’t sell or trade them without offending the gifters. Someone should get some use out of them. It would all just end up in storage otherwise.

 **me, an intellectual:** (21:44) bet theyd still b p offended if they knew i was using their ceremonial whatever fr cats water bowl

 **the white knight:**  (21:45) I’m not planning on telling them.

 **me, an intellectual:**  (21:45) got any more ugly pottery from shon mir lately??? cat could use a food bowl too

 **the white knight:** (21:46) No. They haven’t given us anything in a long time.

 

 

*

 

 

It turns out to be a good thing that Matt has a real mailing address and a datapad with a vidcom function, because the rebels ambush and slaughter a platoon of loyalist troops high up in the mountains above Shon Mir’s capital city and Shiro and Allura’s visits abruptly vanish from Matt’s weeks, replaced by brief vidcom calls and news broadcasts that Matt simultaneously tries to avoid and can’t help himself from following.

 

Shon Mir is big and rich and powerful, and it seems like the only thing that anyone in Quuduzh can talk about. Every day there’s some new update or shouting opinion blaring from the newspapers and radio stations and people on the street, on the bus, in his classroom, in his life. Eeli thinks the rebels are justified but shouldn’t have resorted to violence; Aled the sludgy tea vendor predicts that the Shon Min government will smash through the traitors in weeks; according to Shashis, xir gamma isn’t even on speaking terms with xir mama, split down the middle in their sympathies and which sides of the apartment they’ve claimed as their own, made harder by the fact that they only have one kitchen and one bathroom.

 

“Does your gamma know you’re here?” Matt asks when xie shows up at his door for the fourth time that week with a clay cup full of fish scraps and a wheedling smile.

 

“Yes,” Shashis clearly lies.

 

“You really shouldn’t be here,” Matt tells xir. “I’m not great to be around when I’m drunk.”

 

“Mama says you’re always drunk,” Shashis informs him as xie sidles around him into his apartment.

 

“Your mama’s wrong, because I’m only drunk half the time,” Matt counters. “The rest of the time I’m hungover and teaching.”

 

He gives xir ten minutes before he kicks xir out, though, and leaves the front door to the apartment open behind them the whole time, even though it makes all his atoms shriek like klaxons. He hasn’t had one of his really bad episodes since that first night with Shiro and Allura, the kind where he goes away completely, but Shashis is little and breakable and it’d only take one loud bang at the right time on the wrong day for things to go very, very wrong. Anyone spending time with him needs an exit strategy.

 

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” Matt asks xir when xie shows up the next day, lugging a package that appears to be addressed to Matt. He pokes at it suspiciously. “Where did this come from?”

 

“Buggie at the door downstairs,” Shashis says, making a beeline for Cat.

 

“Hey, that’s really rude, don’t call them that,” Matt tells xir. He opens the package to find a prettily-packaged assortment of goodies and samples, complete with handwritten note from the Hive. “Xaraz aren’t bugs.”

 

Shashis scowls and shrugs, mulishly plonking xirself down on the floor next to Cat.

 

“Don’t you go to school or something?” Matt asks.

 

“Today’s Fifthday and I want to say hi to Cat,” Shashis says, busy petting her with two hands while Matt starts dividing his free treats into Eat Now, Eat Later, and Hoard. “Is your baby here?”

 

“My  _baby_?” Matt asks, horrified.

 

“Alli,” Shashis says, looking at Matt like he’s being a total dumbass for briefly entertaining the idea that one of his drunken one-night stands is running around with a little mini-Matt, which unfortunately is not a zero-possibility.

 

“Alli is very not my baby,” Matt hurriedly clarifies. “He’s my friend’s kid. He just comes along with them sometimes when they visit.”

 

“He’s loud,” Shashis opines.

 

“He’s developmentally appropriate,” Matt says diplomatically.

 

“He’s not appropriate, he yells naughty words,” Shashis says, scratching at one of Cat’s itchy flaking spots.

 

“Hey, so do I when I’m in the right mood,” Matt says, experimentally biting into one of the lumpis from the box and immediately sending up a fervent thanks to the genius who first thought up frying lumps of sugar dough. “So who am I to judge?”

 

“He shouldn’t be loud,” Shashis mutters.

 

“Loud can be really stressful,” Matt agrees, thinking about how many loyalist vs. rebels arguments have been screamed down through his ceiling recently.

 

Shashis carefully feeds Cat the last fish scrap and doesn’t reply.

 

“Don’t you have… friends you want to hang out with?” Matt tries. “Who aren’t me and Cat?”

 

“No,” Shashis mumbles.

 

“What about those kids you were with all the time?” Matt asks. “Your cousins?”

 

“No,” Shashis repeats, voice wobbling.

 

“Um,” says Matt, who didn’t understand six-year-old social interactions when he was one and still doesn’t now. “…Do you want a lumpi?”

 

Shashis nods, and Matt gives xir a lumpi, and then another one when xie feeds the first one to Cat because xie ran out of meat scraps, and then Cat scurries off in search of small things to kill and Matt’s left with a small person who’s trying very hard to be grown-up and not cry.

 

“Er,” Matt says. “So.”

 

Shashis sniffles.

 

“Hey, do you do that thing here in school where you grow beans to learn about plant life cycles?” Matt asks desperately.

 

“Asmi squished mine,” Shashis says tremorously.

 

“Do you want to try again?” Matt asks. “I have beans. And I guess you’re not allergic to them, because you touch them all the time. But maybe don’t eat anything you grow. Just appreciate it. For science!”

 

And that’s how he ends up gaining a garden minion to do all the pruning and planting his back won’t let him bend over for, and that’s worth the extra open-door time whenever the yelling upstairs gets too loud, even if Shashis is a little too gleeful with the pruning shears. Anyway, Shashis names xir bean plant seedling MENDEL, which is worth like 10,000,000 cool points in Matt’s book, and the arrangement is symbiotic in all kinds of ways, because between Shashis and Cat and Eena and his students and his pemme game it’s kind of — okay, sort of — not really enough at all to distract him from the Shon Mir Situation, capital S absolutely required.

 

At least he statistically has fewer panic attacks around Shashis. Like, 20% fewer. Maybe closer to 10%.

 

Matt sort of gets more on-the-ground news than anyone else in Quuduzh, and it’s not helping at all. He knows that at least Allura’s safe-ish, running from ally to ally trying to get them to pressure Shon Mir into peace, but Shiro’s on Shon Mir, pushing a last-ditch effort to stop a civil war that by now everyone knows is coming.

 

The Black Lion now permanently patrols the skies above Shon Mir’s capital city, and its message couldn’t be more clear — the enormous war machine throwing the palace of government into permanent shade with its bulk — and the last time Matt had talked to him, a brief vidcom call in the middle of the night, Shiro had told Matt that he’d moved Black from a courtyard in the diplomatic wing to a bay in one of the Alliance escort ships because he was worried about saboteurs, either from the rebels or the ruling government.

 

There’s a wildfire about to rip through Shon Mir, but no one knows which way the wind will blow it, and meanwhile Matt drinks and waits and worries and hopes that Shiro won’t get trapped in it too.

 

Eena’s not happy with his +10 drunkenness, she’s too polite to  _say_  it but he can tell, but he doesn’t care. He warned her about what she was T.A.ing for, and he’s trying his best to pack his days with mid-season exam prep and Matt Fails At Touching Things practice and research on pemme strategies, but there isn’t any other way to fill the room left over, and the amount of room left is A Lot. Shiro and Allura give him their anger and fear and despair but they won’t actually give him  _details_  — typical for Shiro but new for Allura, who still expects Matt to put on his Politically Neutral Hat sometimes so she can bounce her ideology off of him and see what sticks, and this new radio silence can only mean…!

 

Well, a lot of things, but they’re all probably bad. Allura says she just doesn’t want to worry him, that she knows he’s done with politics and war but that’s 1) really fucking selective hearing and 2) WRONG, because he is done with all that but he’s not done with them and that’s a part of them, he wishes it wasn’t but it is. Besides, he was a military strategist once, he can read a situation if he has details; he’s not planning to be a remote player general but he wants to know  _something_ , and for once Not Thinking About It is worse than letting the thoughts in.

 

Shiro doesn’t; Allura won’t; even if Matt wasn’t a disillusioned deserter and kind of on the run??? from his old allies, Lotor was never active in Shon Mir so none of his rebel contacts would have information networks there —

 

— but there is someone who does.

 

 

*

 

 

>EXECUTE: IDEAalg.vHOLT

>ROUND 1

>ROUND 2

>ROUND 3

>ROUND 4

>ROUND 5

>ROUND 6

>ROUND 7

>ROUND 8

 

how’s the rebellion on shon mir actually going

 

_Matt wtf_

 

you’re not on the ground but i know you have people there

you probably know as much as allura does

 

_Why the fuck do you need to know_

 

reasons

 

_What kind of cake do you want for your birthday?_

 

cherry

no code coconut, no rescue needed

i’m ok but shiro’s there

he won’t tell me anything

allura won’t tell me anything

 

_Wow I wonder why_

 

i’m worried about shiro

pidge please

 

_Fine_

_The rebellion has a lot more civilian support than the govt thinks, mostly preet but some shon min too who think the govt has gotten out of control, which it totally has_

_But it’s not enough to feed and supply the rebels all the way through winter, especially if the govt requisitions tons of provisions from the preet, which they usually do_

_Woo hoo oppressive regimes_

_The rebels are living off the land and that’s working out for them but they picked a shitty month to actually start fighting_

 

so it’s going to happen

 

_Yeah_

_But it’s going to be a short war if the rebels don’t fix their supply chains, they’re a fucking mess where they exist and most places they don’t_

 

are you going to help them with that?

 

_Outright supply them no fucking way_

_We’re supposed to be Switzerland and all our shitty allies would ditch if they thought we were going to support rebellions on their own planets_

_But back channel send people who could help them get their shit together_

_Maybe_

_We can’t afford a long war and civil wars are always long_

_Ugh_

_We don’t know_

_I don’t know_

 

hard to be righteous when you’re old right

 

_I’m 34, asshole_

 

wow i’m almost as old as dad was

that’s weird

 

_Yeah_

_It is_

 

is shiro going to leave if the fighting goes urban?

 

_It’s going to go urban_

_Ibonin is ready to explode_

_That’s probably where the civil war will really start_

_But Shiro’s being weirdly practical about this so he’ll get out when it does_

 

ok i didn’t know that so thank you

 

_Yeah_

_Don’t tell anyone that I told you_

_Definitely don’t tell Allura_

 

i won’t tell anyone

except cat

i tell her all my secrets

she’s very discreet

 

_You got a cat?_

 

no i have a lizard named cat remember?

shes green and eats bugs and sleeps in my bed even tho she doesnt pay rent

shes very rude

 

_That name is just confusing for no reason_

 

no its confusing for REASONS

 

_Well if I ever get a cat now I’m going to name it Lizard_

 

that would be so awesome please get a cat

wait you already have a cat!

 

_I’m not going to rename Green “Lizard”_

_I can’t rename her, she’s not my pet_

 

maybe she wants a nickname

you should ask

 

_OR_

_I build a Earth domestic cat-size robot and name that Lizard_

 

carbon capture six-stroke engine?

 

_That’s one heavy cat_

 

yes it’s fat but it’s fast and fuel efficient

if you’re basing your AI on an earth cat i’m guessing you don’t want it to fly

 

_Carbon capture six-stroke engine it is_

 

a quick, heavy lizard

or you might say

a fassst cat

 

_I just groaned in 3 different octaves_

 

hey pidgeon

thanks

 

_You’re welcome, stork_

 

 

*

 

 

After five weeks of Eena sending Matt messages through his university mailbox and then being soulfully disappointed when he doesn’t read them because he doesn’t read any messages in his university mailbox, Matt finally breaks down and gives her his private contact ID, and Eena in turn breaks down and spends one awful, terrible, wonderful afternoon sitting down with him at The Bakery and going through the entire contents of holtm@quu/univ.galax with the ruthlessness of an English gardener attacking an overgrown hedge.

 

“That’s a lot of subfolders you’re setting up,” Matt says, peering over his shoulder at his datapad, which she had politely stolen from him the nanosecond they sat down with their pastries.

 

“You can  _never_  have too many subfolders,” Eena says seriously.

 

Matt surruptiously taps away at his pocket comm.

[CONTACT ADDED:  **it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa** ]

 

“Thanks for doing this, by the way,” he says, since he doesn’t want to give her the impression that he won’t lean on her like a pathetic tent to complete basic life tasks, but he also doesn’t want to be rude about it.

 

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Eena says earnestly. “It’s worth it to have you answer messages promptly now.”

 

“Ah,” Matt says. “Yes.”

 

“Did you work something out with Anawaitshe?” Eena asks.

 

“…Who?” Matt asks.

 

“One of your Level 2 students,” Eena says. “She’s been sending you a lot of messages about scheduling a teacher-student meeting.”

 

“Right, yeah, her,” Matt says, drawing a total blank.

 

“Eight messages,” Eena says meaningfully.

 

“That’s dedicated,” Matt says.

 

“Would you like me to message her back?” Eena asks. “Or you can write it, of course, I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Matt says, “let’s set up a meeting for Thirdday,” except he’s out ‘sick’ (viciously hungover) on Thirdday and nobody named Anawaitshe is in class on Fifthday or Eighthday and he’s starting to think that Eena made her up to teach him the error of his ways when the tall, quiet girl in the severe headscarf who sometimes sits in the front row next to the door corners him after class Firstday and says, “I am sorry for no be here. Talk now?”

 

“Uh, okay,” Matt says, even though he’d really rather get home to Cat and the jug of rocknut rotgut in his sink.

 

“I am Anawaitshe,” Anawaitshe announces.

 

“Weren’t we supposed to meet… not today?” Matt asks, squinting at her.

 

“Yes,” Anawaitshe says. “I was not here.”

 

“That’s fair, I wasn’t here every day either,” Matt says. “What’d you want to talk about?”

 

“I hope… help,” Anawaitshe says haltingly. “I am not here many times, and one ear…” She waves vaguely and dispiritedly at the ear presumably under her headscarf. “not… there now. So many good things you teach, I do not understand them.”

 

Oh, right, now Matt recognizes her name. Anawaitshe’s the one who failed the last five tests.

 

“Look, between you and me, you don’t have to worry about failing out of the class,” Matt says. “I’ll pass you anyway.”

 

“Thank you, but not… I want to learn,” Anawaitshe says. “I hope for help to do this? See, I have the work from last week —” She produces her datapad and hands it to him, the text barely readable under the spiderweb-shattered screen.

 

“This is… good,” Matt says slowly, reading through her code. “Really good. But you missed this here. And there.”

 

“I was not there for this,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“That bit there, no, but we did this last class,” Matt says, pointing.

 

“Oh,” Anawaitshe says. “Yes. So. I hope help. Any kind. I want to learn this.”

 

“Well, it’d help if you turned your translator implant on,” Matt says. “Or, sorry, are you that kind of religious? I mean, you use a datapad, so I assumed, but guess I shouldn’t. It makes an ass out of U and Me, right?”

 

“What?” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Because of the spelling,” Matt says, and then belatedly realizes that English spelling puns might not really work when he’s technically speaking Universal and the tiny implant in his head is just making him think that the entire galaxy speaks his native language. “You know what, never mind.”

 

“I do not have a lot of religion,” Anawaitshe says haltingly. “My implant does not work good. It was damaged. I do not have money for to buy new implant.”

 

“Oh,” Matt says. “I thought you just weren’t the chatty type.”

 

“No,” Anawaitshe says, quietly. “Before, I talk a lot.”

 

“There’s got to be a way to fix that, right?” Matt asks. “I mean, I could probably do it if it was  _outside_  of your head —”

 

“They say, buy new, cannot fix this,” Anawaitshe says. “I save money. I work. I have many jobs.”

 

She waffles, then admits: “I am not… good. My home had war, I left, and now… it is hard to do work good. It is hard to know how I will be tomorrow, or after that. So I have many different jobs.”

 

“That’s why you’re missing class?” Matt asks. “Because of work?”

 

“Yes,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“And other stuff?” Matt guesses, because… well, there’s a look. He sees it every day in the giant-ass Sex Mirror. “Like, sometimes it’s hard to leave the house?”

 

Anawaitshe stares at him, silent and stone-faced. It’s squirm-inducing until he remembers that her species expresses emotions in their tendrils, not their face, and then it’s squirm-inducing in a completely different way. Even twenty years after leaving Earth, Matt still looks for feelings in facial expressions, so her headscarf hadn’t seemed weird to him at all, but looking at her now, he realizes just how unsettling it is to not be able to see her tendrils at all — like talking with someone and joking with them and pretending not to notice that they’ve had a black bag over their head the whole time. Uanani’i's veil is pretty common in Quuduzh, but it's not required of any of the species who need cranial visibility to communicate. She must be a hardcore devotee to wear it.

 

“But I respect your privacy,” Matt says so he can stop focusing on how unnerving she is. “So what exactly do you want?”

 

“Help,” Anawaitshe repeats. “Any.”

 

And the rational thing would be to politely tell her nah, not this year, retake the class when you’ve got money and sanity and better tech — Matt is struggling just trying to take care of a garden, a lizard, and an email inbox, the last thing he needs is to take even more responsibility for a  _person._ He should be smart about this and be one in an ugly conga line of people to tell her no, and she’ll quietly take it and flounder in his class or drop out and he won’t miss her, because you don’t miss people like her, like Matt, like Shiro, the ones who  _need —_

 

Oh, fuck this all to fucktown, Matt thinks. It’s just a puzzle. I used to be good at solving those.

 

 **me, an intellectual:**  (16:29) eena wheres the student handbook

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:32) …do we even have a student handbook??????

 **it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (16:33) Hello Professor Holt!!!!

 **me, an intellectual:** (16:33) hi eena

 **it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (16:34) The Guide to Regulations and Procedures should be available via your university login.

 **it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (16:38) If you don’t remember your login, there’s also a few hard copies available in the East Building library.

 

“Well, the chairs are comfier there anyway,” Matt tells Anawaitshe. “To the library!”

 

It takes a lot of increasingly tense conversations in the university’s administrative building —

then a little yelling in the administrative building —

then a horrifically embarassing panic attack in a bathroom in the administrative building —

then a grudging vidcom call to Allura —

and then a visit to the administrative building from an extremely polite lawyer who reminds said administrators that the university at Quuduzh didn’t just sign the galactic education accords, they originated the standards that the accords copied, and those accords are a tremendous achievement that set the light of education burning on a hundred planets and it would be especially nice if the university actually followed them —

but four days later, Anawaitshe goes home to her tiny rented room in a falling-apart boarding house in the Teardrop with a new loaner datapad and some clever software, and it won’t fix her mind or missing ear but at least it’ll help her get the full Professor Matt Holt Experience, i.e. him nattering about quarks and gravitons and repeating himself five times in two minutes. Reading auto-generated transcripts of his own lectures sure is an interesting experience!

 

None of it solves the problem of the broken translator implant, though. Allura’s people were able to kick the university in the pants hard enough to have some assistive tech fall out, but the university flat-out refused to pay for a replacement implant, on the (entirely fair!) basis that it wasn’t a loan unless they could rip it out of her head when she graduates.

 

Anawaitshe gets a little more comfortable talking in class and a lot more comfortable talking to Eena, but Matt can still see the unanswered questions floating above her head like sad balloons, thoughts and questions too complicated to force into the rudimentary vocabulary and jumbled grammar Anawaitshe’s been forced into, and it pisses him off more and more every day — the walls thrown up by money and war and the cruel randomness of a universe that just doesn’t give a shit about the people trying to live in it.

 

“Would you like me to try to arrange something?” Allura asks tersely when he vidcomms her for his fourth drunken rant on the subject. “This is getting rather tiresome.”

 

“No,” Matt slurs, “she doesn’t trust you, she won’ take an’thing from you. Candy from strangers. Very bad. ’s dangerous t’take gifts. There’s no such thing as  _gifts_. People still want shit for ‘em, they jus’ don’  _tell_  you ’ntil iss too late.”

 

He blinks heavily at her, trying to make eye contact with her even though the room keeps spinning really inconsiderately. “Don’ trust anyone. Teach Alric that. Don’ trust. Keep ‘im safe.”

 

“Fascinating take,” Allura says sourly. Matt hiccups. “Do you need to go vomit now?”

 

“Mm, maybe, yeah,” Matt mumbles, and leans just far enough out of the vidcom frame to do just that.

 

“I meant in the toilet,” Allura says.

 

“Sorry,” Matt says.

 

“Just don’t fall asleep in it this time,” Allura says.

 

“I miss Shiro,” Matt mumbles.

 

“Me too,” Allura says. “Now go drink some quiznacking water.”

 

 

*

 

 

Meanwhile, despite Eena’s earnest assurances that her greatmother would back off now that she’d gotten what she wanted, the Hive’s campaign of aggressive niceness continues only a little bit abated. They wave at him on the street, greet him by name, and now at least once a week Shashis shows up at Matt’s door with groceries and some new kind of dumpling or tea blend or curry (the Hive is apparently very into food-based businesses), inevitably including a note like:

 

…but it’s food!!! so unless it’s poisonous it’s always a A+ in Matt’s gradebook, and the compliments and critiques he passes on to Eena are usually Shashis’s.

 

Matt would have expected the politeness-and-free sample well to run dry as soon as he hired Eena (even if the Hive is committed to getting money from every species they can). It’s been months, though, with the politeness is still flowing, and he’s starting to have the horrible suspicion that he’s been unwillingly inducted into their vast network of relationships and that unless he does something to anger the greatmother, he’s going to become someone’s sister’s friend’s wife’s niece’s professor if he hasn’t already.

 

At least it’s gone from fawning and terror-inducing to just vigorous neighborliness, but even that’s making the needle on his paranoia seismometer twitch. He has a T.A., a delivery-kid, a standing order at The Bakery, neighbors who know his (last) name, aunties who cackle every time he and Shiro pass them in the hall, a telepathic child trauma specialist with egg drop soup, parents at the splash fountain who comment on how Alric must drive his mama wild with all that energy and stop Matt on the street to ask about Alric when he’s not there —

 

Matt’s alive today because he learned how to blend into the crowd, how to stop his tongue and keep his distance — how to be that man in the corner that no one knew because no one wanted to talk to him. Now all of that is being cheerfully peeled back, piece by piece, and sometimes it feels like being skinned alive.

 

He would talk to Shiro or Allura about it, but he knows it wouldn’t help. Anonymity is a wonderful vacation for them, not survival; they’re strong enough that they never need to hide. Instead, he mumbles it to the floor when he’s drunk and to Cat when he’s soberish and for some unfathomable reason, he lets it slip to Gabar halfway through his second bowl of the egg drop soup that she whisks him off to eat when he goes to fetch his baking pot that she borrowed, these words as heavy as bullets on his tongue and the only choices to spit them out or choke.

 

His heart starts pounding as soon as he’s done it, his breaths coming faster and faster and washes of ice-fire-ice wracking his body and anger roaring through his head — so what if those words were heavy, he’s carried around heavier things, he carries them every fucking day, every step on these metal  _things_  he didn’t ask for, every minute more in this fucking galaxy that took his father and took his mother and took his sibling and took him, just takes and takes and  _takes_ , and now she knows, she knows, she knows —

 

— but all she does is say ba, ba, yes, it can be very hard to finally stop running, here, have some more tea, it won’t burn you but it’s hot, just hold the cup, it’s good to focus on the heat, isn’t it?, and he knows he’s being managed, he fucking  _knows_ , but maybe he needs a little management right now, she could hurt him, of course she can hurt him, but if she wanted to she would have poisoned the soup, and when he calms down she just goes back to feeding Cat little bugs plucked from her birds and telling him about how hard the changes have been on her some of her clients in the Teardrop, it’s not a good place but it’s a place, it is so hard to start over, and she doesn’t make anything of it when he leaves earlier than usual so he can have another panic attack in his own apartment about having a panic attack in front of someone else.

 

Obviously, he avoids her after that. It’s not hard — Gabar+Ssshhhd may be telepathic, but Matt evades-and-escapes with the skill of someone who’s spent most of his adult life with Priority 1: Survival and no priority two. Of course, since he’s clattery, he’s really just evading. The telepathic child trauma specialist can’t confront you about your panic attack if you never leave your apartment! But Gabar is friendly with almost all of the building residents, so he ends up evading everyone else too.

 

This self-imposed exile lasts all of one week, until his weekend liquid brunch is interrupted by someone pounding on his door, and after he ducks for cover and reaches for a blaster that he doesn’t carry anymore, he answers the door to find Shashis and his scheduled weekly grocery delivery and the totally unscheduled Guide to Every Single Thing in Quuduzh at xir side.

 

“…Yes?” Matt says warily.

 

“Shashis, go put the bags on the table,” auntie #1 orders, and then pushes right past Matt to follow her grandkid even though everyone who’s ever seen him pull a knife on some piece of purple laundry when the wind sends it flapping in the corner of his eye — so, everyone in the neighborhood — knows that he’s a hardened ex-soldier who’s blasted and beaten and stabbed plenty of people to death and can’t always recognize past from present and it wouldn’t take much to kill one frail old woman, he’s done it before— or two frail old women, actually, because auntie #2 just pushed right past him too.

 

“What’re you doin?” Matt demands, and tries to take a threatening step towards them, but the room spins enough that walking is mostly just a threat to him.

 

“My kitchen’s too small for all the fighting,” auntie #1 says, groaning a little as she stretches and pops before plopping herself down on one of his chairs. “You don’t use yours for anything but drinking and storage, and our Shashis was coming up anyway, thought you could use some company. That’s a lot of dumplings and they don’t keep.”

 

“Ok, ‘s my food, not your food,” Matt says, pointing a slightly wavering finger at them, “and if you’re here to try’n talk politics — LEAVE. Right now.”

 

Auntie #2 frowns. “Shashi, you been here when he’s been drinking like this?”

 

“No,” Shashis says absently, too busy examining Orion the obor vine for the part xie’s going to demand that Matt cut off and give to xir.

 

“I’m not going to give you the cutting now, I’ll cut m’own fingers off,” Matt warns xir. “Later.”

 

“I’m not here to talk politics. I’m tired of my daughter and her loyalist shit and I’m talked out,” auntie #1 spits. “You’re the only person in this building who isn’t talking politics right now. Even the fucking worm is talking politics.”

 

“ ‘s a symbiote, they do politics,” Matt argues. “And you’re never talked out. Always with the talking.”

 

Auntie #2 laughs. “He’s got you seen, psssh.”

 

“Don’t have t’be rude,” Matt says magnanimously.

 

“I’m never rude, I’m truthful,” auntie #1 says as she props her feet up on number #2’s lap, who unceremoniously shoves them off, which is when Matt remembers that he has the aunties in his apartment and he’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to be here, but he doesn’t know how to get them to leave other than being a hardened ex-soldier and… he doesn’t want to do that. Shashis is here.

 

“Is your proper plural aunties lowercase or Aunties uppercase A?” he asks instead.

 

“Our plural what?” auntie #2 asks.

 

“Your… term of address,” Matt explains. “Are you the aunties or the Aunties? Want t’be polite.”

 

“We got names, too,” auntie #1 snaps.

 

Matt blinks at her.

 

“ …y’dou?” he asks.

 

“Didn’t come out of my egg bein’ called auntie,” auntie #1 says.

 

“But everybody in the building calls you the aunties,” Matt says muzzily.

 

“How’d you know? You don’t talk to anyone in the building ‘cept Gabar and the worm,” auntie #1 says sourly.

 

“Pssh, if you’re sick of fighting, don’t bring the fight here too,” auntie #2 tells her. “Man didn’t ask for that.”

 

“The man didn’t ask for you to come n eat his dumplings either,” Matt says. “Wow, 3rd person, I sound like a Faceless Man.” He giggles to himself. “No name. No-one. I’m no-one.”

 

“We know you got a name too, Holt,” auntie #1 grouches.

 

“Okay — since you have names — what’re they?” Matt asks. “There. No more the aunties.”

 

The aunties-that-aren’t- _the-_ aunties anymore just stare at him, looking Alric-levels of unimpressed.

 

“What’re your names  _please_ ,” Matt clarifies. “See, bein’ polite. M’very polite. You like polite! That’s why you like my you-know-what so much.”

 

Not- _the_ -auntie #1 snickers. “That’s not the only reason I like him.”

 

“I like your other you-know-what better,” the other not- _the_ -auntie says. “She’s got spirit.”

 

“That’s not the only reason you like her,” not- _the_ -auntie #1 says. “And that’s not the only thing she’s got.”

 

“The rude one’s Pesh,” not- _the_ -auntie #2 tells Matt, jerking her head towards her companion.

 

“The ugly one’s Meas,” Pesh tells him.

 

“You’re both very beautiful on the inside,” Matt assures them. “And the outside. But not inside-out, that’s gross, believe me, I  _know_ , I’ve seen that before. Sometimes people get really creative when they’re trying to make an example, y’know?”

 

“Not really, and don’t want to,” Pesh says flatly, while Meas simply nods along. “Do you know how to play pemme yet? You’ve lived here long enough and you’re supposed to be smart.”

 

“I might,” Matt says craftily, and then: “Yes, okay, I do, ‘s all… strategic. ‘S important to stimulate your brain, especially if you have a bad relationship with your dendrites, an’ I do. Very bad. I’m mean to my dendrites.”

 

“Mm,” Pesh says. “Shashi, go get the tea tray. Four hands, don’t drop it! Get Asmi to bring the table and cushions, too.”

 

Matt stares at her in confusion as Shashis scuttles off to do her bidding. “Um, why?”

 

“We got a game going,” Meas says, producing a board and book and binder and pieces pouch from… wow, where was she keeping all of those? And does Matt want to know? “But it’s not right to play all in a rush like they do now, no tea or talk or food.”

 

“I do it online,” Matt says.

 

Meas makes a face like she ate a bad dumpling.

 

“So you play  _that kind_ ,” she says.

 

“There’s another kind?” Matt asks as he reluctantly shoves aside some of his teaching-debris to make space on his table.

 

“Old way,” Pesh comments.

 

“ _Right_  way,” Meas says, plunking down the board.

 

“What kind of dumplings you get?” Pesh asks him.

 

“Sweet with the jam and savory with vegetables,” Matt says. “Didn’t say you could eat em, though. What’s the right way?”

 

“You too drunk to read?” Pesh asks dryly, and when Matt proudly shakes his head no, she pushes the little book at him. “There’s the rules.”

 

“I could kill you,” Matt informs her, and Meas goes all still. “Right now. No dumplings.  _Death_.”

 

“You going to?” Pesh asks.

 

Matt shakes his head. “I could, though. You don’ know.”

 

“Kill us, and we won’t teach you the old way to play,” Pesh says.

 

“That’s logical,” Matt says, nodding. “This’s a really long book, am I supposed t’read  _all_ of this before I play?”

 

“Should, but we’ll teach you if you’re not too drunk to understand,” Meas says.

 

“If I’m so drunk, why’re you playing with me?” Matt asks, triumphantly.

 

“Because it’d be funny,” Pesh says.

 

“And you want dumplings,” Matt says.

 

“You’re getting good tea, though. Everybody brings something to the game table, that’s how to do it,” Meas says. “You got a character already? We got a book of ‘em if you don’t.”

 

Matt accepts the binder and thumbs through it curiously, noting the backstories so long they almost run off the page, the amateur but determined ink sketches of each character at the top of the page. “These’re really detailed. Did y’make these?”

 

“Got to do it right,” Meas repeats as Shashis staggers back into the apartment with the aunties’ enormous painted tea tray, teapot and tiny glass cups and spoons and little pots full of tealeaf and other things Matt couldn’t even guess at if he was soberish, while another member of the Grandkid Army comes marching in at xir side with the collapsing tea tray table in two of their arms and a stack of cushions in the other two. “Shashi, put it there next to the table. I’ll have the green cushion, Meas takes the red. Asmi, go plug the kettle in. Holt, you want a cushion?”

 

“Uh, sure,” Matt says. “But y’get two dumplings each, though. Didn’t buy ‘em to feed you.”

 

They actually end up eating six, but other than the raw animal terror of anyone but him eating his food, Matt gets into the game enough that he decides to let it slide, and also Meas-and-Pesh happen so much and he’s not sure how to stop them other than doing any of the things he’d already decided that he wouldn’t do. 

 

It’s a different game than he’s used to. Online playing and a fierce dedication to being an intergalactic man of mystery doesn’t leave much space for character narrative, but Meas and Pesh’s old way forces the story out of him, and by the time Matt decides that sitting up has become too painful to keep happening unless there’s a lot of alcoholic anesthetic too and the aunties need to leave so he can lie down or dose himself up or both, probably both, it’s late afternoon and they haven’t even gotten through a full round, but Ibix the ex-warrior-priest who’d had a crisis of faith and now wanders the galaxy as an anything-that’ll-make-some-money has planted a treacherous guide in the enemy army but he’s not sure if the guide will deliver what she promised, if the dice say no he’s got to come up with a whole other strategy —

 

— and Matt’s spent five hours without thinking of Shon Mir once. And he’s not sure how to thank two people for being rude dumpling-thieves who commandeered his single sort-of-safe place in the galaxy because they were sick of their own apartments, but telling Meas and Pesh that he’ll get the food next time if they’ll bring the tea again might just do.

 

 

*

 

 

 

*

 

 

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Wage slavery? Creative!

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] And way too common IRL >:(

[schemethedream] theres 2 ppl in my building who play old style pemme and they write novellas fr every characters its ridiculous i was bringing dishonor on my family and my cow by not having shit

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Cow????

[schemethedream] animal on my world. its like a mulo

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Where are you from, anyway? I’ve never heard of any of these things, although I guess there’s a lot of small planets out there…

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] My homeworld is pretty tiny too. Terraformed moon.

[schemethedream] …

[schemethedream] somewhere i dont want 2 talk abt

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Ha

[schemethedream] ??

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Sorry

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Just that’s a very Quabi answer

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] People here either won’t say anything about where they came from or they won’t shut up about it

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] I guess I’m one of the ones who never shut up about home

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] My wives are Quabi, my son is Quabi, I’ve lived in this city for 20 years, I’m probably going to get old and die here, and it still feels like I’m just visiting

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Like I’m just waiting until I can go back to where I belong

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] But you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to

[schemethedream] thanks

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] So anyway what do you think of Pa’Tema’s dam building plan?

[schemethedream] i think theyre still using us to complete their objective and theres a good chance theyre gonna rat us out to Revve

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Agreed :/

[schemethedream] SO

[schemethedream] lets preempt pa’tema

[schemethedream] n get 2 him first

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Invite him into the Cabal?

[schemethedream] exactly. us 2 r better allies than just pa’tema

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] And if his objective is military — I think it is — we can use it for US, not against us

[schemethedream] xactly

 

>CHAT CONTINUED: THE CABAL [ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ], [schemethedream], [fuckyoubusn91]

>USER INVITED: [revvengines]

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Revve, we have a proposal.

>CHAT MINIMIZED

 

>CHAT CONTINUED: TEAM WE KNOW STRATEGY

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] She’s going to be SO PISSED

[schemethedream] haha. ur move pa’tema

 

 

*

 

 **unknown ID:** (4:25) [img]

 **unknown ID:** (4:25) Lizard in progress

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:27) whos this

 **unknown ID:** (4:28) who the fuck do you think is messaging you about a mechanical cat named lizard

[CONTACT ADDED:  **r u pidging me** ]

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:30) loads of ppl

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:30) mechanical cats named lizards are very hot rn

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:31) as long as theyre in direct sunlight

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:31) (altho actually my cats an endothermic homeotherm how cool is that?!)

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:35) [img]

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:35) my Cat completed

 **r u pidging me:** (4:38) eh I don’t know, needs some more work

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:38) im not cyborging cat she didnt ask for that

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:38) thats noncon very wrong no one should evr do that

 **r u pidging me:** (4:39) sorry, bad joke.

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:40) i could build her a mirrorverse twin tho

 **r u pidging me:** (4:42) “could”? think you mean “have to”

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:46) ur on. let the best mechanical animal win

 **me, an intellectual:** (4:46) or rather, let the best mechanimal win

 

“I won’t name it Cat 2.0, though,” Matt assures Cat. “I’m not replacing you. What do you think: Birb or Horse?”

 

 

*

 

 

It takes Matt exactly 8.5 days of Project: Mechanimal (Codename “Birbhorse”) and roughly 50 tiny parts that he set down just a minute ago,  _where the fuck did they go?!_ , for him to reluctantly decide that his life needs some organization that for once doesn’t come from Eena, because she’s amazing and awesome and scary good at herding Level 1 and 2 students but he can’t actually ask her to come to his apartment to sort his screws.

 

The problem, he decides as he surveys the ugly ocean of papers, parts, dishes, bottles, and gardening things covering every available surface in his apartment, is  _stuff_. He’s never been a very neat person — although compared to Pidge, he’s practically the kind of guy who picks bits of dust off the carpet — but he’s lived out of knapsacks long enough that he’s out of practice at living out of a room.

 

He had  _stuff_  — and things! — in his sad goat cottage, but he wasn’t beholden to any schedule other than the extremely loose one he made for himself, so it didn’t matter if he spent all morning digging around for a 8-32x1 screw; actually, it was great, because he had too many empty mornings to kill, and screwing around was better than staring out at the empty hills around him and wondering how many months it would take for someone to find his body once he died here.

 

In a frothy fit of positive thinking and self-loathing, he tries to clean up the apartment one bright weekend afternoon, but after ten minutes of bending over and picking things up, his back/legs/ass/hips/stumps/everything that would make him cry on a daily basis if he even COULD cry are throwing an Alric-worthy tantrum and seizing up, and he has too many _things_ , and then he nearly screams at the thought of just how much mental energy it’s going to take to sort them now that each coherent thought has to be squeezed out of his brain like the last dab of toothpaste from the tube, and there’s no way to do this, there’s too much, it’s too much, he has to live here and find his students’ papers and build Birbhorse and for that he has to do this but he can’t and the only thing he can do is run but he can’t because he’s trapped by all these stupid  _things_  that nail him down to the life he’s chosen for himself and there’s a door right there but it might as well be a solid wall and he can’t do this and he can’t run and he can’t escape and he can’t  _breathe_  —

 

— so Project: Clean This Quiznacking Place Up never really gets off the ground, only compounded by the  _stuff_  that the Hive continues to send him as gifts for some reason he can’t guess at, since the Eena-Matt relationship is a lot more parasitic than symbiotic and he’s the one sucking away.

 

“Oh, greatmother doesn’t give  _gifts_ ,” Eena says when he tentatively broaches the subject during one of their weekly classwork planning sessions.

 

“I have twenty bags of mulch on my balcony that says she does,” Matt says. “How am I supposed to use all of that? I have a studio apartment!”

 

“Give them to someone else, then,” Eena says absently, scrolling through her datapad for yesterday’s class notes. “Or trade with someone else. Greatmother won’t mind.”

 

“Can I just… politely ask her to stop sending it to me?” Matt asks.

 

“She won’t listen to refusals, even if they are polite,” Eena says. “That’s not how she thinks. She’s old-fashioned. You’re helping the Hive because you’re helping me, so the Hive helps you, and now that you know that the Hive will keep helping you, you’ll keep helping the Hive even after you’re not helping me anymore.” She gives him a beaming smile. “You’ve been incorporated into the system!”

 

“So she thinks I can be that incentivized by mulch,” Matt says, temporarily ignoring Eena’s cheerful creepiness at  _incorporating_  him. “Does she know I can’t eat it?”

 

“Well, I’ll make sure she does now,” Eena says brightly. “Have you been getting the pastries? I assume you can eat those since you’re eating one right now.”

 

“Yeah, I have, those are great, I’d never politely refuse those,” Matt says, and then a brilliant plan occurs to him. “Hey, if she’s going to be spending Hive resources on me anyway — instead of sending me mulch every day for a year, can I cash all my sweet mulch-money in at once on something else? I’m sure someone in your Hive knows someone somewhere who could get their hands on what I’m looking for.”

 

“I can ask her,” Eena says. “What do you want?”

 

There’s no mulch or pastries the next morning, much to Shashis’ dismay, or the morning after that, and an eerie quiet descends from the presence that he’s gotten used to buzzing away at the corners of his life. His Xaraz neighbors are still friendly — way too friendly, actually; he can barely set foot in The Stewery without Eeli telling him all about Eena’s continued refusal to ask her greatmother for a baby even though she clearly wants one, do you have children, Professor Holt, our Eebe used to see you at the park with that little one all the time — but Matt’s still on edge, wondering if he’d asked too much of a woman he’d never even met. It’s expensive, his request, even if he has a suspicion that the greatmother wouldn’t buy it as much as arrange it to fall off the back of a truck somewhere, as so many things ‘acquired’ in Quuduzh do.

 

And if she does concede to it, Matt doesn’t know if his brilliant plan will work on his end either. Anawaitshe has no reason to trust him, and he knows from bitter experience how a gift like this could suddenly turn out to have an ugly price tag, especially if it came from a benevolent hand. He has power over his students, even if he tries to treat them like peers, and who knows what he might do if the power gets to his head, he doesn't think so but look at what Shiro asked him to do, what he agreed to do, what he  _wants_ to do, because apparently he's the kind of person who only wants power if it means he has the power to, to—

 

Maybe he shouldn’t have tried this at all. Maybe he should try to be more professional. Maybe he should have never gone to that damn Bakery, maybe he should have told Anawaitshe no, maybe he should have never let Shiro over his threshold. Maybe he should have stayed that man in the corner, silent and nameless, a man who barely slept and ate without tasting and fucked without pleasure and killed without honor and was always dirty because bathing meant going naked and unarmed, a man who hated every ounce of mercy clinging to what was left of his soul.

 

He spends two weeks even more pickled than usual, including one night where he’s so drunk that he shits the bed, and misses four vidcom calls with Allura because of one (1) Princess Business reschedule and three (3) Unconscious But Still Breathing!!! reschedules, but one day Eena arrives in class a little earlier than everyone else, beaming as she hands over a note with an address and a name. Class starts and Matt um’s and babbles and hypothetically imparts some wisdom to his students, and eventually he dismisses them and motions Anawaitshe aside.

 

“New translator implant, bought and paid for, and the surgeon who’ll put it in,” Matt tells her, offering her the card. “Outpatient surgery, lasers and junk, it’s really cool! You won’t even need anesthesia. And it’s free, you don’t owe me or the people who got this. Not a gift, just a thing.”

 

“Nothing cost nothing, Professor,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Trust me, you’re totally incidental to this transaction,” Matt assures her, and then winces. “I mean, this is mostly  _you_  doing  _me_  a favor. Someone I have a deal with keeps sending me gifts I don’t want. Mulch. Do you know what mulch is?” Anawaitshe nods slowly. “Yeah, I have a lot of it now, and they keep sending it! So if I asked for this instead, they’ll leave me alone for a while and not get offended that I’m not appreciating their generosity and I won’t suffocate in mulch. It’s a win-win for me.”

 

“A good talk,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“I know I can’t convince you that this doesn’t mean I want leverage over you or something,” Matt says quietly. “Even though I 100% don’t. I just… want to help. If you decide you don’t want it — that’s okay. I’ll find another way to deal with the mulch situation.”

 

Anawaitshe stares at him, and then says, “I will think.”

 

“Okay,” Matt says. “And while we’re vaguely hinting at trauma, next time you handwrite your homework — please don’t do it in red ink. Especially if your pen leaks.”

 

Part of him hopes that he’ll come in to class tomorrow and she’ll start babbling like a grammatically correct brook, but she doesn’t, and he ruthlessly squashes his little wisp of disappointment with his metal toes and starts drafting up a My Bad speech for the greatmother. Two weeks later, he’s got his speech primed and polished and he should really deliver it ASAP, it’s not a good idea to leave the greatmother hanging — he’ll do it tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And three weeks pass like this, with Eena looking more and more worried and Anawaitshe as silent as ever.

 

One more day, he thinks as he wakes up each morning. She just needs more time. He’s asking her for so much. They just need more time.

 

 

*

 

 

In the hours that he doesn’t spend with Meas and Pesh and their elaborate sprawling old-school pemme game, his and [ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ]’s slowly growing cabal within the PBC’s tight and quick new-school pemme game, Shashis and MENDEL, or thinking about Shiro, Shon Mir, classwork, Eena, Anawaitshe, the Hive, Allura, back pain, sunburn, leg pain, alcohol, food, the war (past), the war (present), his garden, the camp, and Cat’s new habit of bringing dead millipedes onto his bed to crunch up everything but their heads and then leave those to leak green hemolymph all over his sheets, Matt spends the rest of those nerve-rattling weeks thinking of Shiro’s request and him agreeing to go (and come!) along with it.

 

It’s always a delicate balance planning things with Shiro — who’s simultaneously a control freak with ten thousand triggers and a plasma-option bionic arm  _and_  the kind of sub who gets incredibly stressed out if he feels like he has any control over anything that happens at any step of the process — and Shiro seems to be dealing with it by not mentioning it ever and leave Matt to prune in a marinade of doubt and responsibility.

 

Matt does his best. He scrolls through tab after tab on his datapad and doesn’t masturbate to any of them. He fills pages and pages in the KN, mostly with increasingly large ????!s, and then rips them out again. In a fit of proactiveness, he even buys a cushion to practice hitting — not a Shiro dakimakura, even though those are remarkably accurate to size! — and draws a Shiro-shape on it, shading in the YES, EHHH, and NOPE! body zones on both sides for precision practice, but doesn’t end up actually doing much with it other than snuggling with it in bed after putting a pillowcase on it so it wouldn’t judge him.

 

“Well, I’m quite happy to judge you,” Allura says when he makes the tactical error of complaining to her on their biweekly vidcom call. “Stop dithering and simply ask him what he wants.”

 

“Apparently, what he wants is to not have to tell me what he wants but still get it,” Matt says, dumping his sewing kit and the basket of UNSEEMLY HOLES clothes onto the bed.

 

“Goodness. I can’t imagine why you could be having problems delivering that,” Allura says dryly as Matt selects a pair of maroon pants with a very unseemly hole in an extremely unseemly place. “Have you developed latent telepathic abilitites that you neglected to tell me about?”

 

“Not unless everyone around me is just constantly mentally screaming,” Matt says.

 

“Some screaming, certainly, but I wouldn’t say constantly,” Allura says.

 

“Guess that’s all me, then,” Matt says, squinting as he tries to thread the needle with his shaking hands. “So nope, no telepathy.”

 

“Then he’s confusing fantasy for practicality and needs to put some work in too,” Allura says. “You may quote me when you talk to him.”

 

“Speaking of screaming, is that Alric I hear?” Matt asks.

 

“Yes, he’s here too,” Allura says, and hefts a furious-looking Alric into view of the vidcom camera. “Say hello, darling.”

 

“DOWN!” Alric shrieks. “DOWNDOWNDOWNDOWN—”

 

“Still enjoying being Alric’s primary parent while Shiro’s on Shon Mir?” Matt asks her as she puts Alric down and he thunders off to go do something horrible.

 

“Alric is a blessing and a treasure, and nothing I’ve done in this life can compare to bringing him into the world,” Allura says. “But I’d rather be dealing with genocidal apatheid dictators and backstabbing rebels than have one more fucking argument over whether or not it’s time for an N-A-P.”

 

“You’re really on the ‘fuck’ train, aren’t you,” Matt says, muffled as he bites off the end of the thread.

 

“He’s already ruined quiznak for me, so I’m trying my hand at swearing in foreign languages,” Allura says. “ _Fuck_  is very satisfying. I’m also fond of  _co_   _ñ_   _o_.”

 

“Aren’t we all,” Matt says. “Well. Maybe not Hunk.”

 

“You do seem to be overthinking this, though,” Allura says.

 

“My double entendres?” Matt asks, examining the edges of the unseemly pants hole.

 

“Your bed games,” Allura says. “Whatever thing Shiro’s asked you to do that’s gotten you so worked up.”

 

“I’d rather not go into the details,” Matt says.

 

“Well, that would be difficult to do anyway, seeing as you don’t have any,” Allura says.

 

“Come on, I know you two don’t talk out every single detail when you scene without me,” Matt says as he attempts to stab through the tough pants fabric. “You only do that when I’m there. You only  _need_  to do that when I’m there. You already know how to make it good for him.”

 

“Yes, I do,” Allura says simply. “Most of the time. Because Shiro and I have been playing these games for many years, and I have a sense of him by now. But I still make mistakes, and we do still talk at least a little every time.”

 

“Don’t you think that kinda ruins the mood?” Matt asks.

 

“Anyone whose mood for bed games is ruined by talking about those bed games suffers from a very dull imagination,” Allura says dismissively. “Not to mention no regard for suspense.”

 

“I don’t want to get this wrong,” Matt says. “What he asked for… if it goes wrong, it goes wrong. But talking about it for hours and hours would make it go wrong from the beginning.”

 

“But you love talking,” Allura says. “At least in puns and very long scientific terms.”

 

“I know, I do,” Matt says gloomily.

 

“Matt, do you even want to do this at all?” Allura asks. “You can say no —”

 

“—anytime if I don’t want to do something, yeah, I know, you’ve told me,” Matt says. “Many times.”

 

“I was going to say, you can say no to something even if you  _do_  want to do it,” Allura says crossly. “To finish my question — do you want to do this  _now_?”

 

Yes. No. He wants to do this and he doesn’t want to do this and he wants to do this way too much but most of all he wants to want this just enough that Shiro isn’t afraid of him when it’s done.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do,” Matt says shortly. “Hey, is Alric still around? I’m tired of stabbing myself with a needle and I haven’t seen you in a while.”

 

“Matt, you are literally seeing me right now,” Allura says.

 

“ _Seen_  you seen you,” Matt clarifies. “You know, the parts that aren’t your face! I miss them. They’re very nice. In a way that isn’t Alric-appropriate.”

 

“You won’t distract me from this with vidcom sex,” Allura warns him. “Or flattery. I have a point.”

 

“Are you sure? I’m really distracting,” Matt says. “Besides, I want to hear about the results of the diphallia thing.”

 

“The what?” Allura asks, and Matt makes a wiggly-poke motion with two fingers. “Oh, yes, that. Results were very promising, although shifting the right nervous system structure will need some practice. Shiro wore me out just attending to one of them.”

 

“Those pesky corpuscles,” Matt agrees. “Still want to hear about it. Especially if he wore you out with just one, you usually have better stamina than that.”

 

“He was very dedicated to the experiment,” Allura says. “You appear to have rubbed off on him.”

 

“As often as I can,” Matt says cheerfully. “See, aren’t you glad I tell you about the fascinating diversity of human anatomy? It’s fun for all of us!”

 

“Yes,” Allura says grudgingly. “Especially since you found my oviposition stories so unsatisfactory.”

 

“I’m glad that you both have another thing for your HELL YES lists, but I’m not into listening to you dirty-talk about how much you want to lay an egg in Shiro, even if it is the traditional means of Altean reproduction and he’s super diggity down with it,” Matt says. “No offense meant. It’s just not my thing.”

 

“And no offense taken,” Allura says, about as subtle as a very smug brick through a window.

 

“Fine, fine, I’ll stop dithering and find a way to talk to him,” Matt says, because he doesn’t want to keep going in panic circles around this and also because he really wants her to take off her pants. “Now. Sexy time?”

 

“If you’re willing to wait for… mm, twenty minutes while I arrange N-A-P time,” Allura says.

 

“I’ll finish mending these crotch holes while you deal with the terror,” Matt says agreeably.

 

“Goodness, we’re getting boring,” Allura sighs, before she heads off to put her child to bed so she can have video sex with her FWB while graphically detailing having double-phallused sex with her partner.

 

* * *

 

FROM: holt@quu/res.galax

TO: [contact: The White Knight]

 

SUBJECT: Serious stuff ;)

Attached: Kink-Worksheet.doc

 

i tried to figure out how to bring it w/o involving u, but u need to be involved for safety n me havin fewer panic attacks, so i came up w this worksheet thing. (yay data collection!!!!) i thought that doin this long distance could maybe make take the pressure off u tho bc we can talk but we dont have to Talk. if ur distracted by shon mir stuff then thats ok ignore this but if u need some distraction rn take a look :P

 

come home safe.

\- M

 

 

*

 

 

By now, Shashis knows not to pound on Matt’s door when xie wants to gain entrance into Matt’s lair of bean plants. Instead, because Pesh is an old woman and all old women are a little bit evil, Shashis’s gamma gave xir a penny whistle and absolutely no sense of pitch or rhythm, and by the time that it occurs to Matt that he’s literally being trained to come when called like a dog, “Furious Tootling in E Flat” has been filed in his brain in Folder > Sounds Made by Something Unlikely to Rob, Rape, Maim, Torture, or Kill Me. And so when the tootles sound just as he's trying to convince himself that he really does need to do laundry, it's been weeks, he feels safe enough to open the door and admit Shashis and the wire basket xie’s hauling today as a welcome distraction from the problem of manual labor vs. executive functioning vs. socks.

 

“Is that from the Hive?” Matt asks, frowning as xie scuttles past him.

 

“No, it’s from Mz. Gabar and the worm,” Shashis says. “Where’re the lumpis from the buggies?”

 

“Seriously, don’t say buggies, it’s mean,” Matt says, leaving the front door open and mentally promising himself many, many drinks for this mitzvah.

 

“Mama says the buggies are infesting the neighborhood,” Shashis comments.

 

“Then your mama’s also being mean,” Matt says, “and wrong. They’re not infesting, they’re just moving in.” He squints at the cloth bundle in xir basket. "What’s that?”

 

“Mz. Gabar and the worm gave me this for you and said it was fragile so be careful,” Shashis announces, shoving the basket not-very-carefully at Matt. “Don’t break them!”

 

“Thanks,” Matt says dryly, and unwraps the cloth to find eight of the glittering orange eggs that Gabar’s birds lay when they’re in a good mood.

 

“Lumpis,” Shashis urgently reminds him.

 

“I probably won’t have any for a while,” Matt says absently, filling a bowl with water to float test for rotten eggs. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Gabar, it’s just that he doesn’t trust anyone. “No more daily dose of fried sugar dough.”

 

Shashis scowls and stomps over to MENDEL. Matt tries to remember if he’s done anything for Gabar and Ssshhhd lately to merit the eggs, but the only meritorious thing he’s done for them lately is avoid them. It’s highly suspicious, and he probably should give these to Shashis to take right back to Gabar and her brain-mate, but it’s  _food_  so obviously he’s not going to do that. Sneaky Gabar. Sneaky worm.

 

He clanks over to their apartment door later to bravely hint that he’d like to know what the fuck they  _want_  from him — and yes, he enjoyed the eggs, no, he didn’t know the shells could be ground up and set in resin, yes, those earrings are pretty, he didn’t know Gabar had a weekend market stand, of course he’ll take spare eggshells to kill slugs, there’s so many breeds here and he’s used to the cold weather pests, but Shashis is very helpful, yes, he should cook more, no, he’s not that skinny, but yes, of course he’ll have some fry bread now, and tea, and egg drop soup, thank you, it’s very good, yes, the situation in the Teardrop is scary with all the shantytown fires and now the second rainy season coming on, he’s lived in places like that, he’s seen so much death in places like that, and Gabar nods along the entire time going ba, ba, yes, agreed, have some more fry bread, what do you think of the housing lottery program?, and somehow he emerges from their apartment three hours later with a full stomach, a quieter mind, and a table fan that makes a clack-clack-clack sound whenever Gabar tries to turn it on, which of course he can fix in exchange for more eggs.

 

 

*

 

 

 **me, an intellectual:**  (3:52) hey sshiro do u er get lik

 **me, an intellectual:** (3:52) a time ofth yr

 **me, an intellectual:**  (3:52) wher things r the same amont of badbut its justt

 **me, an intellectual:** (3:53) worse

 **me, an intellectual:**  (3:53) flashpoint

 **me, an intellectual:** (3:53) booom

 **me, an intellectual:**  (3:54) ibet no t bvc ur u

 **me, an intellectual:** (3:54) mins comin ithin k

 **me, an intellectual:** (3:54) BOOM

 **me, an intellectual:**  (3:55) tht fuckn ilin

 **me, an intellectual:**  (3:55) dyu thinkl th gurds toldher t do it

 **me, an intellectual:**  (3:55) pbly no

 **me, an intellectual:**  (3:56) justw anted it n didit

 **me, an intellectual:** (3:56) ppl wantbad thinsg

 **me, an intellectual:** (3:56) I KNO

 **me, an intellectual:** (3:57) ido

 

 **me, an intellectual:**  (4:18) HEYYY

 **me, an intellectual:**  (4:19) h ows ur sholder

 

 **me, an intellectual:**  (5:27) whenr u gon b hom

 

 **it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:**  (6:00) Hom? Home?

 **it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:**  (6:00) I’m home right now, Professor Holt!

 **it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:**  (6:01) Do you need something?

 **it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:**  (6:02) (My shoulder’s fine, but thank you for asking! Those boxes were very heavy…)

 

 

*

 

 

Matt gets the fan up and running in a day, just a simple belt fix. He returns the fan and the basket to Gabar, no muss no fuss, but then the next day his after-work drinking session is interrupted by one of the many, MANY kids from the No. 3 ground floor apartment shouting through his door that she has spare cheese and a datapad infected with malware so open up the door and I want to say hi to your lizard and I fed her a bug yesterday! He opens up the door just to tell her to go away, but that cheese does look good and the datapad's a pretty simple fix and the girl finds Cat a big, crunchy beetle. So that’s okay, now everybody go away, #It’sWineTime!

 

But then Rreee downstairs sends a busted seam-surger with a burlap bag of yellowberry plants already grown to vine, and Yavvi across the courtyard pleads a broken fuse and offers a soft, light blanket that makes Matt think of how cold Shiro always gets when he swims up from subspace, and then just when Matt’s about to run out of cheese, the girl from before shows up to explain that her brother accidentally cut through some exposed wires and now the courtyard lights won’t come on and can Matt fix them please? Her cousins keep mulos so they have LOADS of cheese to trade and the aunties said he wouldn’t mind.

 

“I’m not your pet handyman,” Matt warns the aunties as they all sit down to the game table, cursing the bright sun even behind his dark sunglasses and flinching as one of the Grandkid Army runs past them shrieking. Pesh was right, the rooftop gets better breezes than his stuffy apartment, but it’s not an easy place for him to do much of anything that requires concentration. Maybe that’s part of her game strategy. “Stop sending me random people with random broken things.”

 

“Fftt. We did you a favor,” Pesh says. Meas nods and deals out the cards.

 

“How is getting the entire neighborhood to pester me about fixing their shit doing me a favor?” Matt demands. “Also, can you pass me that basket of tea cakes?”

 

Meas passes him the basket. Pesh taps the ash out of her pipe, barely missing the Grandkid Army recruit hurtling past her in pursuit of the first one. "Because neighbors do things for each other, and what you can do for us is fix our broken shit. Good bizi for you. You should be more grateful."

 

“Well, I’m not,” Matt says sourly as he casts his first dice roll. “I want my business to stay my business and now everyone’s all up in it. And fine, they give me cheese, but that doesn’t make up for it!”

 

“Why not?” Pesh asks, sounding genuinely confused.

 

“I like my privacy,” Matt says.

 

Pesh cackles. “Good luck getting any of that here. You moved to the wrong city, boy.”

 

“I’m not a boy,” Matt mutters. “I’m almost forty years old.”

 

“Forty years? I’ve slept longer’n you’ve been alive,” Pesh says, unimpressed. “Meas has farted longer’n you’ve been alive.”

 

“I’ll slap you longer than  _you’ve_  been alive, you sack of mange,” Meas snaps.

 

“Where’d you live, anyway, that you got this idea that your business could stay your business?” Pesh asks him. “Sounds boring.”

 

The trading ships where all the crew had fake names and half of them were on the run, Matt automatically thinks. The slum that I crawled into while I built my first legs, the tent I nearly died in because my pressure sores got infected and I was too afraid to go to the local healer. The broken, empty cottage on a grey moon where I went so long between talking to people that I wondered if I would just lose my voice entirely. The top bunk that I hid in every night I was in that camp until I learned how to be tough, until I learned how to fight back, until I was done gnawing off every part of me that could be hurt.

 

“Places without nosy aunties," Matt says instead. "Stop pimping me out as a handyman.”

 

“Don’t need to pimp you anymore, they’ll find you by themselves now,” Pesh says.

 

“Oh, great,” Matt mutters.

 

“You’ll get cheese and eggs,” Pesh reminds him. “And it’s almost fruit tree season. D’you like stewed lentils and ham? Ami downstairs always has a pot going and she was saying to me that she’s got some terrible problems with her wireless signal. The Baths has the best cooks in the whole city, that’s what I always said.”

 

“Why is this neighborhood called that, anyway?” Matt asks, frowning as sorts through his hand of cards. “The Baths.”

 

“The public baths on Liver Lane,” Meas says. “Two blocks from here. Nice places. Very clean.”

 

“You want to  _really_  get introduced to the neighborhood, that’s how to do it,” Pesh says.

 

“We go wash there every Eighthday,” Meas says, downing her tiny cup of tea in one swallow.

 

“Yeah, I’ll pass on that,” Matt says, and tips a healthy measure of booze from his flask into his own tea.

 

“You should bring your man, next time he visits,” Meas says, moving her player piece two quadrants across the board. “He looks like he could do with a long soak.”

 

“Hasn’t been around in a while, we noticed,” Pesh comments.

 

“Feeling deprived?” Matt asks, winking salaciously, and Pesh snorts but doesn’t disagree.

 

“We see him on the news broadcasts sometimes, though,” Meas says, pouring another tiny cup of tea for herself. “Can’t imagine that’s easy for you, him being in a place like that.”

 

“…You what?” Matt asks stupidly.

 

“See him in the news broadcasts,” Meas repeats, sipping on her tea. “See him in the papers too. He photographs well. Good bone structure.”

 

“Good everything structure,” Pesh adds.

 

“Okay, yeah, he does have great everything structure, but he’s not… whoever you saw in the broadcasts,” Matt says, his stomach suddenly aching in sick terror. “Or the papers. He just looks like that guy. People always think they’re twins, it’s funny! Haha.”

 

“Got the scar,” Pesh says.

 

“Cooking accident,” Matt says.

 

“Got the hair,” Meas says.

 

“Dyes it,” Matt says.

 

“And the metal arm,” Pesh continues.

 

“People have metal things,” Matt says. “I have metal legs, he has a metal arm, we match!”

 

“Moves like a soldier, too,” Meas says.

 

“No he doesn’t,” Matt insists.

 

“You can keep pretending like nobody knows who he is if it makes you feel better,” Pesh tells Matt.

 

“But everybody knows who he is,” Meas adds.

 

“Your woman too,” Pesh says. “And that child of theirs.”

 

“You don’t know shit,” Matt snaps.

 

Pesh snorts. “It’s not just us. Whole neighborhood knows.”

 

“Don’t have to worry, though,” Meas adds. “I’d imagine you worry enough about them. Nobody here’ll tell anyone, and if they do no one will listen.”

 

“I told you, they’re not —” Matt tries, and then lowers his voice to a whisper: “Look, even if you’re right — and you’re not! — I  _do_  fucking have to worry, because there’s always someone willing to talk. There’s always someone willing to listen. That’s why I want my privacy, why I  _need_  privacy — for them! They’re why I can’t be your fucking friendly neighborhood handyman!”

 

“Calm down, Holt,” Meas says. “We don’t mean anything by it.”

 

“Do you know how many times your man has been spotted in Quuduzh?” Pesh asks abruptly.

 

“Every time he visited me?” Matt says.

 

“Fifty times last week, and that’s just the times I heard about,” Pesh says. “Same up in Bebduzh. Your you-know-whats are everywhere all the time, and I bet your woman has people to work hard to keep it that way. Why would anyone believe us over any of the others?”

 

Matt stares at her for a moment.

 

“Oh my god,” he says finally. “Shiro is  _Elvis_.”

 

“Who?” Meas asks, frowning.

 

“Mythological figure from my planet,” Matt says. “The king of Rock’n’Roll. Died and resurrected, appears everywhere at once.”

 

“Which planet is that?” Pesh asks lightly.

 

“I guess not all of my secrets are secrets, but some actually are,” Matt says flatly. “You don’t get to have this one too.”

 

He expects them to push, and compared to Shiro and Allura or even his rebel days this secret is pretty worthless, a planet that they’ve never heard of in a galaxy no one even cares about, but it’s  _his_ , his story, his name, the only thing in this galaxy that’s always belonged to him, no matter if someone else owned his body or he sold his soul or his memories were ripping apart his mind — but Meas just mmms and nods and goes back to her character sheet to check her stats on the dice roll she just threw.

 

“…What do you want for it?” Matt asks eventually.

 

“For what?” Meas asks absently.

 

“For knowing my business but keeping quiet about my you-know-whos,” Matt says. “That’s what you were doing with the handyman stuff, right? Showing off how fast you could spread a rumor? So what do you want for it? I don’t have a lot of money and I definitely don’t have any influence or connections other than them and they won’t give anyone diddly squat, even if someone black-bags me and tries to trade. And I’m not giving you Cat. Otherwise…”

 

He shrugs. “I don’t know. What do you want that I can give you?”

 

“We don’t want anything from you,” Meas says.

 

“You’re not going to get anything out of them either,” Matt warns them. “I’ll find a way to warn them off. They won’t come back for me.”

 

“Don’t want anything from you, don’t want anything from them,” Meas says, “other than a good game and some decent conversation.”

 

“Wanting more’n that from any of you is just asking for trouble we don’t need,” Pesh says.

 

“Besides, I’ve never informed on my neighbors and don’t intend to start now,” Meas says. “That’s bad bizi.”

 

“Bad bizi?” Matt asks as Pesh nods and hisses in agreement. “You keep saying, good bizi, bad bizi — what’s that, what’s bizi?”

 

“Blood,” Meas says. “Luck. Bad bizi, it curses. Things happen to families with bad bizi. Nobody here’d bring that down on themselves.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” Pesh says, a smirk creeping across her age-cracked face. “But if your woman wants to play a round with us the next time she comes around, Meas’d bring  _that_  down on herself.”

 

“She’s not my woman,” Matt says as Meas swats at Pesh. “She’s not anyone’s woman. She has a name.”

 

“Do you want me to say it?” Pesh asks wryly.

 

“Well — no,” Matt says. “Actually, definitely not. But you could call her Lara. She goes by that sometimes.”

 

“Eh, good enough,” Pesh says. “Lara’s always welcome. And whatever he goes by too.”

 

“Not really anything,” Matt says. “He’s not that creative at names.”

 

“Better think of something, then,” Meas advises. “Can’t keep calling him your you-know-what forever.”

 

I didn’t think I was going to need forever, Matt thinks as Pesh and Meas start bickering over the rulebook, nearly tearing out a page as Meas grabs the book and Pesh grabs it right back. I didn’t even think I was going to need this long.

 

Instead of saying something with feelings leaking out of it, Matt moves his player piece three quadrants across the board, neatly cutting Pesh off from the mine she’s been building a road towards the whole of the round so far.

 

“Die in the mother flood, you shitworm,” Pesh hisses.

 

“Lara, Shitworm, and Elvis,” Matt says contemplatively. “Has a nice ring to it.”

 

“Not Professor Shitworm?” Meas asks, neatly laying down road track for her turn.

 

“Lady Lara, Professor Shitworm, King Elvis, and Alli Five Handfulls,” Matt says. “Even better. I’ll get a door plaque. Tiled.”

 

“They’re welcome here, your people,” Meas says. “Lara, Elvis, whatever they call themselves. They’re neighbors too now. We don’t turn on each other here.”

 

“Idiot, we turn on each other plenty here,” Pesh tells her. “Just over important things, like whoever’s been stealing my sheets off the line, not stupid ones like politics.”

 

“Wow, who’d ever steal your sheets?” Matt the serial sheet-thief asks.

 

“They come back stained sometimes,” Pesh says darkly. “ _Stained_.”

 

“I don’t believe that you don’t want anything from me,” Matt says. “I can’t. I know how the world works by now, and it doesn’t work like that.”

 

“Believe what you want, Holt,” Pesh says. “All we can do is tell you the truth.”

 

“Fine. You don’t want anything from me, say do I believe you,” Matt finally says, testing. “Do you know where I could find some stone blocks and cheap siding? I need them for a project.”

 

“Cheapest’ll be Jung downstairs,” Pesh advises. “Does some night building. He can get it for you, or if he can’t he’ll know who can.”

 

“Night building?” Matt echoes.

 

“Building, but in reverse,” Pesh says. “At night.”

 

“Right, yeah,” Matt says. “Hey, do you have any grandkids who’d want to make some money? A little bit. Not a lot.”

 

“Yep,” Meas says, reaching for her fourth dumpling.

 

“That you trust to finish a project and not make a mess?” Matt continues.

 

“Mm, no,” Meas says.

 

“A few,” Pesh says, suspiciously. “Why?”

 

“I need to clean house,” Matt says. “Well. Clean apartment. For my… people. Lara and you-know-who. But…” He gestures to his lower half. “I can’t by myself.”

 

“Shashi and Asmi’ll do it,” Pesh says. “But don’t pay ‘em in beans, we got enough of those.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Matt says, who’d been planning to do exactly that and probably still will. “So which one’s Jung?”

 

Jung the night builder — who turns out to be the incessant news-radio-broadcast guy snoozing away in the courtyard while all of Matt’s worst fears crackle away around him, thanks Jung! — does know where to find some very low-price plastic siding and some stone blocks, good quality, good price, very reasonable! probably because they look suspiciously like the ones from the wall around the Quuduzh Lesser Judiciary Hall.

 

Matt halves his days off liquid brunch so he can teach Shashis and Asmi some structural engineering and let them gorge on the lumpis and dumplings from The Bakery and make sure they don’t drop one of the blocks on Cat, and two days later he has all his Birbhorse materials sorted into about a thousand (okay, 37) old takeout boxes and a set of long shelves that’ll hold up to whatever he puts on them, which is good considering that he just  _knows_  Alric is going to try to climb into the lower ones.

 

He sets aside the entire first afternoon for Project: Clean This Quiznacking Apartment, but it turns out that once Shashis and Asmi get rid of all the empty bottles and stray papers and old food containers growing all sorts of interesting varieties of mold, there’s not much left to clean. The sea of  _stuff_  that had seemed so overwhelming barely fills up two shelves, with three shelves gaping empty below.

 

And those empty shelves were the point of this, he should be happy about all that accusing nothing-space, mission accomplished, go Matt! — but even with Cat sprawled out on the top shelf, the whole effect just seems pathetic, like he’s playing make-believe at being a real person the same way Alric pretends to be a pilot, and he nearly dismantles the whole thing before he makes himself walk away. Instead, he spends the rest of the afternoon in his garden, meticulously examining every single leaf for any hint of pests or fungus, and then spends the rest of the night drinking his mind into silence, trying to drown this sick, strange anger at himself.

 

He’s horrifically hungover when he drags himself to class the next morning, nearly throws up on the bouncing bus and then does throw up — twice! — in the staff washroom, the whole world spinning and throbbing along with the pain in his head. Normally he encourages his students to come to class on the basis that it’s hard to learn things when you’re not actually around to learn them, but he’s still grateful that only five students show up, and that all of them are old-timers who know that he’s periodically a pathetic, disgusting mess who has them do critical reads of trade publications while he hunches miserably at his desk and squints at their latest projects and tries to convince himself that he does have some worth as a teacher, even if it’s so small that it belongs in the 99¢ store.

 

Eena seems particularly cheerful today, babbling away on Anawaitshe’s hearing good side and earning a few quiet smiles in return. Normally, it’d be charming, but right now he just wants it as far away from him as possible, so he’s glad that it’s Anawaitshe who returns the journals to him at the end of the class. At least Anawaitshe doesn’t  _chat_.

 

“Find anything good?” Matt mumbles, reaching up to accept the journals without looking up from the desk.

 

“Hiwanstile Alie’s thoughts on security through obscurity were certainly interesting, but both Eena and I thought his evidence seemed suspicious, and when we tracked down the cited studies, their methodology was a little… loose,” Anawaitshe says. “We enjoyed your annotations, though. Did you mean to give us that copy? Also, we’re both wondering what a fucknut is. I assume it’s not a kind of food.”

 

Matt blinks, and then peels his face off the desk to stare up at her, and then at Eena, who’s in the doorway grinning maniacally at them both.

 

“It’s a really annoying person,” Matt tells Anawaitshe. “Like Hiwanstile, who starts with his conclusion and then goes looking for a hypothesis.”

 

“It’s a good word,” Anawaitshe says. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

 

Her tone is friendly, but it’s not Eena’s megawatt delight. Anawaitshe’s suspicious of him now; waiting for him to pull her aside one day and demand whatever price he promised her that she wouldn’t have to pay. But she enjoyed his annotations, and she’ll remember what a fucknut is.

 

“Trust me, I have so many good words,” Matt tells her. “And if I accidentally give you any more of my annotated copies, you’re gonna learn them all.”

 

“Well, I am here to learn,” Anawaitshe says. She pauses, then says quietly, “Thank you.”

 

“Thank you for saving me from being buried alive in mulch,” Matt replies. Anawaitshe nods and saunters out of the classroom with Eena bouncing at her side, and Matt waits until the room has entirely emptied to victory-punch the air.

 

* * *

 

FROM: [contact: The White Knight]

TO: holt@quu/res.galax

 

SUBJECT: Re: Serious stuff ;)

Attached: Shiro-Kink-Worksheet.doc

 

I’m sorry that I didn’t respond to this earlier — I hadn’t checked my messages in a while, but it was a nice surprise to see one from you, and I appreciate how thoughtful (and “thought”-provoking!) this worksheet was. I should have been more communicative, but… well, as you said, discussing plans about this isn’t really what I want, so thank you for finding a way to talk without talking. I assume I’m getting one of these back from you? (Although if you’re comfortable with it, I’d prefer to just get the tear and share portion.)

 

I don’t know how things will go here, but I suspect the offworld personnel are going to be evacuated soon and I’ll be called back with them.

 

Don’t worry, I’m keeping safe. Be safe yourself. Go easy on the drinking.

 

I’ll probably see you very soon.

 

\- T

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: explicit alcoholism; emetophobia; panic attacks.


	6. Shiro-Kink-Worksheet.doc

 


	7. FOLDER: MATTKINK > mattkinkws.doc




	8. mattkinkwstearnshare.doc   **nts: send 2 shiro!!!!

 

 

 

 

Since multiple people have asked for the blank version of the kink worksheet, it can be found [here](https://docdro.id/8UMx75J).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: implied rape


	9. Kink Notebook pg. 51

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank-yous to szzzt and confusadora for beta-ing! I normally don't respond to comments unless people ask me specific questions (because all my replies would be some inane version of "thank you!"), but know that I read and re-read and love every single comment I get, so a big blanket thank-you to everyone who's left one.


	10. The First Weekend of Bem, 822FA (Rainy Season)

Shiro comes to Quuduzh with the first of the rainy season storms, messaging Matt that he’s landed just as the blasterfire-loud pounding on the distant see-through plastiglass roof of the apartment building’s courtyard subsides into a dull pattering and Matt slowly lets go of the death grip he’s had on Cat, although she doesn’t come out of his scarf-thing for another few minutes. Thank everything that this species is comforted by pressure — otherwise Matt would definitely have a few more chunks of him missing by now.

 

They’ve emailed back and forth a few times since Matt sent The Worksheets (capital letters definitely deserved), enough that Matt is more impatient than nervous at seeing Shiro again now that most of his deepest darkest sexy secrets are laid bare and Shiro’s even barer. Shiro said that he was going to make it out Thirdday, but then something came up about one of the Alliance members pulling their funding for the Preet refugee camps starting to pop up in planets near Shon Mir, so Matt waved aside his guilt and told him to go save the starving orphans, literally.

 

He sees Shiro maybe twice a month if he’s lucky. It’s not a lot, definitely not enough, but Shiro has a life on the Castle and a seriously intense job on Olkarion and everywhere else he has to go running off to, Matt sort of has a life-shaped existence and a much less intense job in Quuduzh, and just the ride from the goat moon to Quuduzh’s planet of Duu was bad enough, Matt’s stupid brain absolutely screamingly convinced that they were about to get into a firefight any minute now and they would both be blasted out into space and freeze and shatter in the vacuum—!!!!

 

So that hadn’t been fun, and there’s no way he’s regularly traveling on a spaceship to anywhere, much less to the Castle, i.e. a giant warship that does see battle and probably will again, no matter how many times Allura insists that there are kids onboard and it’s just a diplomatic residence now.

 

The point is, there aren’t a lot of great reasons why he and Shiro are doing what they’re doing and a lot of reasons why they shouldn’t be, but plenty of good reasons why they’re doing it long-distance. It still sucks bocce balls, though.

 

Maybe it’s the absence that makes those first few moments of a Shiro Visit so intense even through the grey fog of alcohol. As soon as Shiro steps through the archway of The Stewery, the world just gets _more_ , rich and vivid — the heat of Shiro’s body as he slides onto the bench next to Matt while the rain drums on courtyard awning above their heads; the thick spice smell rising from the bowls already on the table mingling with sudden petricor and engine exhaust; that soft, unique Shiro-smell that Matt chases in his bedsheets and made him steal Shiro’s shirt back from Cat’s pillaged rag nest just so he could sleep on top of it and tell himself that this is a totally normal and not at all creepy thing to do.

 

“How long have you been waiting?” Shiro asks, frowning at the two bowls in front of them.

 

“Not that long,” Matt says. “Ten minutes? And it wouldn’t have been sad stood-up soup if I’d had to wait longer, this stuff is good hot or cold so I could have pretended that that was my plan all along.”

 

“That’s still a long time for you out in public,” Shiro says, still frowning.

 

Matt shrugs awkwardly. “Cat’s here,” he says, waving down at the lizard contentedly sprawled across the scarf covering his slightly damp legs. “We’re practicing neighborhood outings, so this is good for her. And I kind of know pretty much everyone here thanks to Alric, so it’s not… terrible. Don’t you dare tell me you’re proud of me.”

 

“Fine, I’ll just think it,” Shiro says, that motherfucker, and nods towards Eeli behind the counter. “What’s the latest on the Eexi drama?”

 

“Oh, _big_ news,” Matt says. “Eeli and Xi are having a second daughter AND Eena’s niece Eesh just announced that her wife is pregnant with _three_ daughters, so this whole neighborhood is about to get really passive aggressive. Like, more than it usually is, and that’s a lot. What’s the latest on Shon Mir?”

 

“Nothing that important,” Shiro says.

 

“You evacuated all the off-world diplomats and personnel, that’s important,” Matt says, annoyed. “Something must be happening.”

 

“You said you didn’t want to be dragged back into that,” Shiro says between bites of bread. “It wasn’t fair that we did, so I’m not going to do it anymore.”

 

“Dumping it on me when I didn’t want to hear it wasn’t fair, but neither is stonewalling me when I do,” Matt says. “Am I that much of a liability to you?”

 

“What? No,” Shiro insists.

 

“Well, that’s bad judgment, because I am kind of a liability, but that’s not the point,” Matt says. “Stop protecting me from yourself and just… tell me enough.”

 

“I don’t think talking out here is a good idea,” Shiro says.

 

“Everyone in this city is talking about it, and it’s all way wilder speculation than what you’re probably about to say,” Matt points out. “And it’s not going to matter that you’re the one saying it. Everyone here just thinks you’re one of the ten thousand Shiro lookalikes running around and I’ve got a signal scrambler in my pocket just in case.”

 

“Wait, really?” Shiro asks, surprised.

 

“Old spy habits die hard,” Matt explains.

 

“Is that why your vidcom keeps dropping our calls?” Shiro asks.

 

“Shiro, Shon Mir,” Matt reminds him.

 

Shiro waffles, but after a moment his voice drops into Top Secret Mode and he says, “I don’t know what else we can do while staying neutral, which we have to do, because we’re Voltron. If the acting assembly would stop cracking down so hard on any Preet they think _might_ be a rebel sympathizer, maybe we could buy enough time for a peaceful outcome, but they won’t and it’s going to be war.” He shrugs unhappily. “The Shon Min think they’ll crush all the rebels in a month, and maybe they will, but…”

 

“We both know how well that goes,” Matt says, and Shiro sighs heavily and nods. “Pidge says you’re thinking of aiding the rebels. You know, quietly.”

 

“Allura thinks we should let them fight it out on their own, not make any of our other allies nervous by ‘meddling’,” Shiro says, mouth tight with quiet fury. “And we’ve confirmed that the mystery aid coming to the Preet rebels is from Lotor, so that’s…”

 

“Complicated,” Matt supplies.

 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Shiro says, sounding far too weary. “Helping our enemy’s puppet army doesn’t look good to allies who lost thousands of soldiers _and_ noncombatants to him barely a year ago in the Mnenmus, and they’re recovering, but… Maybe Allura’s right. Let what’s going to happen, happen, and just intervene if things turn… really bad.”

 

“The entire economy of Shon Mir depends on Preet labor,” Matt says. “If they’re smart, they’ll make it an economic war, not a military one. Besides, the Preet outnumber them five to one but only, what, a tenth of them are actually supporting the rebels right now? The government is smarter than risking open revolt from all of them.”

 

“The Shon Min don’t have the numbers, but they do have the biggest guns, and— Can we talk about something else?” Shiro asks plaintively. “Anything else. I’m so tired of talking about Shon Mir.”

 

“I bought a sex mirror,” Matt offers.

 

“You’re right, I’d much rather talk about that,” Shiro says.

 

“Well, we could _talk_ about it, I could tell you how really giant and not that streaky it is, OR —” Matt says, winking roguishly, “— you could finish that soup quickly and I could just show it to you. Your choice.”

 

“Well, that depends,” Shiro says. “Does it come with a demonstration on how to use it?”

 

 

*

 

 

“Oh, oh, Matt, Matt, please, _oh_ ,” Shiro gasps, and even though Shiro has his back to Matt, Matt can see everything in the mirror, the desperation in Shiro’s eyes, his powerful thighs working as he rides Matt’s cock, his face flush with sex and desperate pleasure.

 

“Best. Purchase. Ever,” Matt gasps out.

 

 

*

 

 

Matt’s down for some hardcore post-coital snuggling afterwards, but Shiro makes a face when he suggests it.

 

“It’s _hot_ ,” Shiro complains, like he isn’t going to be snugging up to Matt and Allura like a giant sexy barnacle after tomorrow’s planned Kink Time.

 

“You sound like Alric,” Matt says, amused.

 

Shiro scowls, but still leans in for a kiss before he rolls off the bed, giving Matt a super great view of his super great ass as he goes. There’s a lot of reasons why Matt wishes that Shiro would retire from active combat, but his vigorous workout routine is not one of them.

 

Then again, Matt was into Shiro back when he was a gangly sixteen-year-old with the world’s ugliest crew cut who hadn’t grown into his shoulders _or_ his jawline, so when Shiro’s body stops letting him push it to the peak of muscle-y perfection, Matt is probably still going to be pretty into him then too.

 

Sadly, the combat ass disappears under the loose pale blue pants of Shiro’s latest “I’m Not the Black Paladin Visiting My Secret… Person!” outfit, but Shiro’s abs are spared from the dread fate of being covered by a shirt when Shiro pauses in the middle of getting dressed to examine the half-assembled metal skeleton that’s going to be Birbhorse once Matt stops getting distracted by booze and bad dreams and every other fucking thing that always comes up whenever he tries to actually accomplish something.

 

“Is this… are you taking on more tinkering work?” Shiro asks, frowning. “I thought the university was paying you pretty well.”

 

“No, Allura squeezed the bursar pretty hard and a sweet salary fell out,” Matt says, lounging back against the pillows, making no attempt to get dressed. It’s nice to be naked around Shiro; Quuduzh’s rainy season makes all clothes instantly sticky the minute they touch skin and Matt’s starting to finally think that Shiro really doesn’t care about Matt’s scars and stumps. “That’s an independent project. For fun! Pidge and I are having a mechanical-animal-building competition and I’m obviously going to win, because look at that thing.”

 

Shiro looks at him in surprise. “You and Pidge are talking again?”

 

“…Sort of?” Matt says. “Not in person since the time they came to yell at me and reveal that they’d violated your privacy, but we’ve been virtual trash-talking each others engineering skills, does that count?”

 

“With you two? Yes,” Shiro says. “Actually, that reminds me — hold on,” and goes to dig through the pile of his discarded clothes/boots/bag/blaster by the door until he comes up with a metal document tube.

 

“Those better not be shared custody papers for Alric,” Matt mutters.

 

“What?” Shiro asks.

 

“I said, What’s that?” Matt tells him, and Shiro smiles and pops open the vacuum-sealed cap and lets the roll of paper he pulls out unfurl down to the ground in a slow explosion of color.

 

“Is that… Did Alric make this?” Matt asks, squinting at what is obviously An Art, if a very MoMA-flavored one.

 

“Maze did,” Shiro says, carefully laying out the entire 5-foot length of the Art across the bed. “She was having some artist’s block and asked if you wanted a drawing and I said yes. Remember, I asked you about favorite colors?”

 

Matt does not remember talking about favorite colors and he definitely didn’t tell Shiro that he wanted yet another _thing_ in his apartment, but he nods vaguely anyway, twisting around to examine the Art — one long continuous drawing, tangled turquoise-green-blue-gold lines gliding serpentine across layers of black-silver-blue scribbles and the white paper underneath. It’s not very sophisticated, all abstract scribbles and shaky whorls, but there’s something compelling about it anyway, almost hypnotic, and he reaches out to lightly trace one of the waxy lines of gold running through the main tangle, following it as it twists and loops and flashes through the blues and greens.

 

“It’s definitely abstract,” Matt observes.

 

“All her stuff is,” Shiro says. “She doesn’t have the fine motor skills for realism. It’s okay if you don’t want it, though, her art isn’t everyone’s thing —”

 

“No, I… I’ll keep it,” Matt says. “It matches Cat. Can you roll it back up for me?”

 

“I thought you might want to hang it,” Shiro says, trying very hard to not look disappointed.

 

“Oh, I do, and I’ll use you tomorrow as physical labor to do it, but right now I want to use you for something else,” Matt says.

 

He pats the bed beside him invitingly. Shiro frowns, but comes back to bed, curling up next to Matt like a big, sexy cat, and Matt leans down and kisses him again, wet and hungry.

 

“You’re very…” Shiro says, obviously struggling to find a word more dignified than ‘horny’. “Energetic tonight.”

 

“It’s that time of year again,” Matt says, lightly stroking the sensitive spot behind Shiro’s left ear. Shiro shudders. “I’m trying to get all my sex in before the deadline.”

 

“What time of year?” Shiro mumbles.

 

“Kerberos,” Matt says between kisses. “The cages. The Arena. The camp.”

 

“Mm, right,” says Shiro vaguely — who according to Allura had seen Matt during last year’s Squiggly Time, not that Matt remembers anything that had happened during those weeks — and then he pulls back from Matt, suddenly sharp-eyed and frowning. “Wait, how do you know? Have you been checking the calendar or something?”

 

“No, I just know, I always know,” Matt says, “but it doesn’t fucking matter, because I don’t want to talk about it, I want to do this now,” and strokes Shiro’s shivery behind-the-ear spot for emphasis.

 

“We do need to talk about it,” Shiro says, although he’s a little cross-eyed at the stroking.

 

“No, we don’t,” Matt says, frustrated.

 

“Yes, we do,” Shiro insists. “At the very least — do you want me to be there this year? You weren’t… happy about that last time.”

 

“Sorry for whatever really drunk PTSD-riddled me told you last year,” Matt says, glumly sitting up as it becomes clear that Shiro’s not going to be distracted from this line of questioning no matter how nicely Matt strokes him. “Or — yelled at you? Screamed at you? Cried at you?”

 

“Screamed, mostly,” Shiro says.

 

“Probably some crying too, right?” Matt asks fatalistically.

 

“I don’t care,” Shiro says, so yes. Probably a lot. With snot! “Well, I don’t enjoy being called all those things, but you weren’t yourself.”

 

“No, that was me being myself, that’s the problem,” Matt says, and a little part of him does want Shiro there, wants _someone_ , like being protected now could protect that nineteen-year-old boy whimpering in that top bunk in the barracks and praying that this time someone would help — but by now Matt knows Shiro’s ghosts as well as his own, and the last thing Shiro needs is someone he cares about screaming at him that he’s a worthless, selfish piece of shit who ruined their life. “You should stay away this year. It’s bad for both of us if you try to get involved.”

 

Shiro frowns unhappily. “You shouldn’t have to go through it alone.”

 

“I’m not going to go through it alone. I’ll be with my friends the whole time,” Matt says, gesturing grandly towards his liquor shelf.

 

“Those aren’t your _friends_ ,” Shiro says, scowling.

 

“They’re always there when you need them, so that makes them more reliable than a lot of the ‘friends’ I’ve had,” Matt points out quite reasonably. “That’s _loyalty_.”

 

“That’s alcoholism,” Shiro snaps.

 

“Well, yeah, but it doesn’t make the loyalty part less true,” Matt says.

 

“If you don’t want me, then what about Allura instead?” Shiro asks.

 

“I do want you. Shiro, I always want you,” Matt says, hoping that for once, Shiro’ll believe it. “Just… not during Squiggly Time.”

 

“…Squiggly Time?” Shiro echoes.

 

“Because of the, you know,” Matt says, wiggling his fingers.

 

“Oh,” Shiro says. “Right.”

 

“Remember, this apartment is a guilt-free zone,” Matt reminds him. “If you want to angst, you can do it out in the hallway.”

 

“You should talk to Allura,” Shiro says.

 

“About you angsting?” Matt asks. “Trust me, we talk about that a _lot_.”

 

“About being here for… Squiggly Time,” Shiro says, sounding more pained by the moniker than he had at its actual content, although Matt actually appreciates that Shiro just took it in stride when he told him what had happened all those years ago. One of the benefits of having a sex person who could get a near blackout in Trauma Bingo — they’re a lot more blasé about all the B-I-N-G-Os you could get. “She’ll be here tomorrow morning, you should ask her to stay with you when it happens. You and her are a lot less complicated than you and me. It could work.”

 

“Right, because Allura can afford to take a whole month off Princess-ing to watch me get drunk every night,” Matt says.

 

“Maybe if you didn’t try to go through it alone, it wouldn’t be a month,” Shiro says. “Besides, you can’t afford to take a month off work either.”

 

“I’m not going to take any time off from work,” Matt says. “At least more than I usually do. I’ll just teach drunk or hungover and maybe freak out on them at weird, tiny things. I do all that already. They’re used to it. It’s part of my charm.”

 

“Please just talk to her,” Shiro says.

 

“Or you will?” Matt asks.

 

“Matt, I will anyway,” Shiro says.

 

“Okay, fine, I’ll talk to her,” Matt says, although he won’t and they both know it. “But I’m not there yet and I want to enjoy the time I have before I start my annual freakout.”

 

“Matt,” Shiro says.

 

“Shiro,” Matt says. “Please. You don’t want to talk about Shon Mir, and I don’t want to talk about this. Can we just get back to making out? That was fun, right?”

 

“Just making out?” Shiro asks.

 

“If that’s what you want, then yeah,” Matt says, relieved that Shiro’s going to drop the Squiggly Time thing — for now, at least. “Or we can just watch more Fullmetal if you’re not in the mood.”

 

“…And if I am in the mood?” Shiro asks grudgingly.

 

“Well, I didn’t just get a sex mirror, I also got a sex rug,” Matt says proudly.

 

“Is it third-hand?” Shiro asks.

 

“Yeah, but I washed it and I’ve been told it’s very comfy for knees,” Matt informs him. “Technically it’s for tomorrow, but we can totally test-drive it tonight. For science!”

 

“Right, blowjobs. Very scientific,” Shiro says dryly, tugging Matt back down to sprawl on top of him.

 

“Shiro, you could get a PhD in Oral Sex,” Matt says seriously.

 

“What would my thesis be?” Shiro asks.

 

“Practical Applications of the Use of Pressure-Gradient Force in Stimulating the Human Central Nervous System,” Matt says promptly. “Which is a super scientific way to say suck my dick.”

 

Shiro laughs so hard that his body actually shakes under Matt’s, and Matt smiles, running his hands through Shiro’s hair.

 

“I miss you,” Shiro says.

 

“I’m right here,” Matt reminds him. “We’re both here now. Let’s enjoy it.”

 

Shiro doesn’t actually end up using the sex rug — they’ll be time for that tomorrow when Allura comes — but he does suck Matt off, sprawled lazily across the mattress as Matt sinks into the pile of pillows at the headboard and pets Shiro’s shivery spots and dark hair and watches him in the sex mirror, angled just so to be visible from the bed.

 

Matt isn’t really a fan of watching himself making weird o-faces, but getting a blowjob from Shiro is always a treat and getting a view from the outside of him giving it makes it even better — the same tingly anticipation that Matt always gets when Shiro goes down on Allura while they’re all three together, watching her moan with Shiro’s head between her legs and imagining that soft mouth and clever tongue put to use on him instead. Maybe it’s a little weird to be fantasizing about getting a blowjob from Shiro while he’s getting a blowjob from Shiro, but by now it’s established in canon that Matt’s more than a little weird.

 

Unfortunately it’s also established in canon that the awesome blowjob thing isn’t going to go both ways tonight. It never does, and not for lack of interest. Matt wasn’t a virgin when he left Earth, thank God — he’d never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend, but he’d gotten a few handjobs and fumbling, sloppy blowjobs from other cadets and he’d given some equally fumbling, sloppy ones in return, and it was high on his list of Things to Get Awesome At, preferably with that hot Japanese guy he was going to be stuck in a small metal tube with for two years. Then Squiggly Time happened, and it jumped ship to his list of Things to Never Do Again, even though he really wants to.

 

He’s tried with Shiro, a few times. It hadn’t ended well for anyone. Sometimes on their sexy vidcom calls, Allura describes what it’s like for her when she blows Shiro, how he tastes (salty) and feels (soft-skinned and veiny, her words). That’s hot, in a bittersweet way.

 

At least he can touch Shiro at all. At least when Matt gasps and comes and gets to witness mirror-Matt making a SUPER weird o-face and Shiro pulls off with a wet pop and ties off the condom and crawls back up the bed to make out with Matt more and politely not at all mention his own erection bumping against Matt’s hip even though he clearly wants Matt to do something about it, Matt can pin him down and kiss him and brush lightly over his nipples with a single fingertip and stroke all his shivery spots and jerk him off as loosely and slowly as he can without Shiro actually howling in frustration, because Shiro’s Law of Handjobs is that the best handjobs are ones where he’s not 100% sure that his partner will actually let him come, and if they are, they’re definitely not going to let him do it any time soon.

 

Matt’s definitely not complaining. A squirming, frustrated Shiro is a sexy Shiro indeed, maybe the sexiest Shiro except for all the other Shiros, because every part and version of Shiro is sexceptional and if Matt ever tried to list every sexy thing about Shiro he’d run out of notebooks before he ran out of things — not that this apparently stopped drunk!Matt from trying, because he’d woken up a few days ago to discover vomit in his shower and a smudgy SHIRO SEXY list crumpled up in his bedsheets. Drunk!Matt is a raunchy bastard, a terrible misspeller, and apparently a huge fan of Shiro’s ass and cock and eyelashes and nose and the birthmark on his thigh that kind of looks like a map of Madagascar.

 

(Shiro used to have another birthmark. Matt had spotted it a few times when they were crammed together on the Kerberos mission — right in the middle of his chest like a coffee stain over his heart. It’s gone now, and sometimes Matt wonders why, the cruel randomness of the things Haggar took and left, organs and limbs and birthmarks and the oxygen mask abrasion scar that Shiro’s never talked about getting removed, not once, even though the Castle med bay robot could do it in under twenty minutes.

 

Matt can’t imagine having something like that and not getting rid of it the first chance he got, even if it was him and not Shiro who had screaming nightmares about accidentally waking up in the middle of surgeries. The scars he has are bad enough, and at least he was conscious when he got most of them. At least he can sort of pretend that they were his choice.)

 

“Matt,” Shiro mumbles against Matt’s lips, “Matt, please, please, _please_ —”

 

“Oh, alright,” Matt says, like it’s not actually SUPER AWESOME, and he slides his hand through the slick precome gathering around Shiro’s slit and tightens his grip and moves faster and about 0.005 seconds later Shiro comes like a shot, Matt barely kissing him in time to muffle what he’s sure would be a deafening shout (Matt has o-faces, Shiro has o-screams).

 

They keep kissing through the aftermath like they both love doing until they’re yawning more than kissing. Shiro pulls away so he can tuck a stray strand of hair behind Matt’s ear, and he has that the soft look on his face that means he’s about to say something dopey: _You’re so handsome. I missed you so much. I trust you, Matt. Please beat me until I bleed. Please come visit me on the Castle, just once_ , but Matt can’t, he can’t, none of it, and he’s suddenly terrified of whatever’s going to come out of Shiro’s mouth next because he just knows it’ll be —

 

“Go brush your teeth,” Shiro says.

 

“…Oh,” Matt says. “Uh, yeah, I can do that,” and then takes a whole fucking five minutes to go through the process of putting both prosthesis back on just to go brush his teeth and not for the first time he thinks vaguely about getting a beater wheelchair so he can be lazy at sink height. Halfway to the washroom, though, he gets _inspired_ , and by the time Shiro joins him with his own little tube of gross spicy-sour toothpaste that he insists on storing in Matt’s apartment even though Cat keeps trying to eat it, Matt is t minus ten to naked and de-legged.

 

“Bath time,” Matt explains as he starts on the ancient art of bathtub turny-button twisting until he and the pipes finally agree on a water temperature that won’t melt the flesh from his bones. “Allura’s coming tomorrow, so it’s time for those natural juices to go.”

 

“But I don’t rate a bath?” Shiro asks, eyebrow raised.

 

“Nope,” Matt says. “You like my natural juices!”

 

“Please never say that again,” Shiro says, pained.

 

“Okay, I’ll just think it, because we both know it’s true,” Matt says.

 

“Do you want help?” Shiro asks as he watches Matt gingerly scoot down his shower-bench-more-like-shower-slip-n-slide thing.

 

“I might be a cripple, but I’m not _Alric_ ,” Matt says sourly. “I don’t need you to bathe me.”

 

“There’s nothing weird about an adult helping another adult get clean,” Shiro insists, which definitely reveals one bullet point on Shiro’s List of Sub Service Tasks for Allura and doesn’t actually make it any less weird for _Matt_. “Your bathtub fits two people and I was going to shower anyway.”

 

“No, you weren’t,” Matt says. “Save the service for tomorrow, Shirogane. You’re gonna need it.”

 

“Is there anything I should know about tomorrow?” Shiro asks, squirting out way too much toothpaste onto his toothbrush.

 

“Do you want to know anything?” Matt asks, groping around the tub for whatever slimy corner his soap bar lodged itself in this time.

 

“No, I don’t,” Shiro says, slightly garbled.

 

“Is there anything we should know?” Matt asks. “Anything off your baseline?”

 

“No,” Shiro says, muffled, and spits out some of the weird spicy toothpaste. Cat immediately scuttles into the bathroom.

 

“Good,” Matt says. “Tell us if that changes. Shiro, let her eat that if she wants.”

 

Shiro looks at him in foamy horror. “You want me to let your pet eat my _toothpaste_ _spit_.”

 

“Well, you weren’t doing anything with it anymore,” Matt points out as Cat happily scrabbles up the wall and into the sink. “It’s like giving her treats. She’ll like you now!”

 

“Matt, I don’t think your lizard will ever like me,” Shiro says, eyeing a toothpaste-spit-covered Cat eyeing him.

 

“Would you be disappointed if tomorrow’s not The Day?” Matt asks, finally locating his soap bar and beginning to vigorously scrub.

 

“The day for…?” Shiro asks, trying to look like he’s not seriously considering retreating in the face of Cat.

 

“ _The Day_ ,” Matt says. “Or The Night, I guess we didn’t really talk time of day. The Day or Night when we do the scene that I sent you the worksheets about. The one you asked me for. Cat, don’t bark at him!”

 

“No?” Shiro says. “I didn’t think it would involve Allura, so I wasn’t expecting it to be tomorrow.”

 

“It won’t involve her,” Matt says. “It’ll just be us. That’s information you’re okay with, right?”

 

“Yeah, it is,” Shiro says. “And actually, I think advance notice of when you want to do it would be best. That way I can schedule around Voltron things. Are you okay? You’re acting a little…”

 

“Fine, fine, great, super keen,” Matt says. “Would you be okay if before we have The Day or Night, capital D slash N, we just have a day or night? Lowercase letters. A trial run for some of the impact stuff. That wouldn’t ruin the real one, right?”

 

“They’re all real, and you’re not going to ruin anything,” Shiro says, even though that’s objectively not true. “But a trial run sounds great.”

 

“Okay,” Matt says, relieved. “Awesome applesauce. Wake me up if I start to fall asleep and drown,” and proceeds to happily prune away the next half-hour, washing and soaking and thinking about clothespin zippers and idly wondering if this galaxy has bath crayons.

 

When he finally reluctantly pulls the plug on bath time and towels off and scoots back into the main room on his little cut-rate scrapwood-and-wheels I’m a Double Amputee Who Doesn’t Feel Like Putting My Legs Back On skateboard thing (which is definitely _not_ sink height — it’s barely shin height), Shiro’s in front of the Sex Mirror, changing into the pajama bottoms that he leaves here now.

 

In the soft evening lamp-light, Shiro glows almost golden, his heavy muscles and high cheekbones and long eyelashes even more dramatic than usual, and he’s so beautiful that Matt can barely believe that he’s a real person and not a woozy fantasy that Matt is dreaming up in his last moments as he bleeds out in a ditch — and then Matt catches sight of himself, this stumpy and scrawny tired-looking thing perched on a fucking skateboard, and… well, he knows that he’s too old to be insecure about his body, but looking at the picture they make, he wants to simultaneously laugh and cringe at the absurdity of them together.

 

He doesn’t understand how Shiro could ever look at him and see _power_. He doesn’t even understand how Shiro could look at him and not see _pathetic_.

 

“We really don’t look how we’re supposed to,” Matt says quietly.

 

“What?” Shiro asks.

 

“How we look together,” Matt says, vaguely waving a hand to encompass them both. “We don’t look right. Not for what we’re going to do. You’re all… and we look… I look…” _Silly._

 

“Hey, I like what I see,” Shiro says softly, smiling down at Matt in the mirror. “And I like how you look.”

 

“Hearteyes motherfucker,” Matt says, because he sure can’t say any of the other things that are crowding on his tongue.

 

“That’s me,” Shiro replies, like he does every time, which better not be his version of _As you wish_ but probably is. “Are you going to stare at yourself for the rest of the night, or are you planning on coming to bed?”

 

“I thought we already came a _lot_ to bed,” Matt says. “In bed. Fuck, it doesn’t work.”

 

“I’ll give you points for trying,” Shiro says, getting down into bed and lifting the sheet up so Matt can scoot right from his skateboard thing into bed right next to him. There’s a reason his “bed” is basically just a mattress on a platform. Middle of the night pee trips wait for no legs.

 

“Do you think you’ll have any nightmares tonight?” Matt muses as he carefully builds a mini pillow fort between them so Shiro doesn’t accidentally end up on top of him during the night.

 

“I don’t know,” Shiro says, twisting and wriggling around in the sheets like Cat trying to get comfortable in her nest. “Will you?”

 

“Maybe,” Matt says, and doesn’t mention that he dipped into the bottle of rotgut he stashes under the bathroom sink, although in deference to kink times tomorrow he kept it to the bare minimum amount that he needs to be able to fall asleep. “If I do I’ll try to keep them quiet. But wake me up if you start feeling suicidal.” Shiro makes a little noise that definitely isn’t _sure_. “Come on, let’s say it together. I will wake Matt up —”

 

“I will wake Matt up —” Shiro says grudgingly.

 

“If I start feeling suicidal,” Matt finishes.

 

“If I start feeling… suicidal,” Shiro grumbles.

 

 “See? Wasn’t so hard,” Matt says sleepily. “And then, unlike last time, actually do it.”

 

“Alright,” Shiro says, so there’s maybe a… 60% chance he will? Better than 0%, at least. “Goodnight, Matt.”

 

“Goodnight, Shiro,” Matt mumbles, his nightly shots already doing their job as he starts to drift off to clouded, foggy sleep. “Sleep well. Be safe.”

 

“You too,” Shiro says softly, and then Matt’s out.

 

 

*

 

 

Gabar’s egg birds are singing, the sun is attempting to shine behind all the soggy rainclouds, Shiro doesn’t end up waking him up, nobody has screaming nightmares, and Matt’s hangover headache is promisingly minimal, so the next morning starts off great.

 

Matt doesn’t even throw up once, although he does have to down a lot of calcium carbonate to even be able to look at the rice and fried egg that Shiro plunks down in front of him with all the subtlety of Keith. Shiro’s a talented diplomat, or at least that’s what all the constant radio broadcasts blatting about Voltron’s various adventures say, but he might as well be singing a little jingle about balanced breakfasts, which rice and fried egg isn’t anyway so ha-HA!

 

“It’s more balanced than nothing,” Shiro says. “Besides, if you want vegetables you can have some of the soup from last night too,” and a bowl of cold soup appears suspiciously quickly next to the egg-and-rice.

 

“That was a trap, wasn’t it,” Matt says.

 

“No,” Shiro says, which in Shiro’s Dad Speak means _yes_.

 

“I don’t remember signing up to have kinky sex with _Gabar_ ,” Matt complains, although he picks up the spoon anyway, because food.

 

“What?” Shiro says, alarmed.

 

“Not actually. But she’s very into feeding me soup — I really hope in a nonsexual, totally vanilla way,” Matt says. “Is there a reason you made a smiley face on the egg with little bits of seaweed?”

 

“I did?” Shiro asks. “Oh, yeah, I did. It’s just autopilot by now, Alric won’t eat it if I don’t do that,” so the man Matt is supposed to be dominating in a few hours is feeding him toddler breakfast. Great.

 

Matt squints at him for any indications that Shiro’s already psychologically started the kink times, since service sub Shiro can get unintentionally condescending sometimes, but he doesn’t have the slow breathing and soft eyes that he gets during a scene, just a slightly annoyed glare because Matt isn’t currently nourishing himself with his increasingly balanced breakfast.

 

“Are we supposed to pick up Allura or is she coming here?” Matt asks, poking open the runny egg yolk and stirring it into the rice.

 

“You tell me,” Shiro says. “You two are the ones who planned today.”

 

“You’re right, we sure did,” Matt says, muffled through a mouthful of eggy emoticon rice, and neglects to mention that he and Allura planned the kink part of today but forgot to plan the commute. “Can you pass me my datapad? I just need to check something.”

 

 **me, an intellectual:** (9:28) i think we should pick u up from the port????? so u dont get lost AGAIN

 **made of** **☆** **stuff:** (9:29) I didn’t get *lost*, I merely took a different route than you usually do.

 **me, an intellectual:** (9:29) we spent 4 varga chasing eachother all ovr th pub trans system. shiro n ill come get u

 **me, an intellectual:** (9:30) mb try th thing we talked abt thirdday???? if shiros ok w it could b fun 4 u

 **made of** **☆** **stuff:** (9:30) And you too, I hope.

 **me, an intellectual:** (9:31) :)))))))))))

 **me, an intellectual:** (9:31) meet u @ port silver stn @ th central fountain last one is a vanilla egg

 

“Hey Shiro, anything changed since last night for you?” Matt asks.

 

“My shoulder’s bothering me again,” Shiro sighs. “I think I slept on it wrong. But otherwise no.”

 

“Sweet,” Matt says. “Let’s ride! After I finish eating, obviously.”

 

Despite their best efforts, they’re already soaked through by the time they make it from Matt’s apartment to the correct bus to the monorail that will take them to Port Silver station, packed into the train car with ten thousand other squelching, unhappy travelers. The cane merits Matt a disabled seat, but that’s almost worse, trapped with a ring of tense and angry strangers looming over him and no way to get to the exit other than climbing over piles of bodies if he doesn’t just get trampled or suffocated, and he spends the entire ride huddled against the window, looking at the strange stone forest of the city whizz past and trying to remind himself that nobody blows up trains in Quuduzh or chokes them with poison gas or demands papers he doesn’t have, watching them move down the train car passenger by passenger as their heavy blasters shift under their uniform jackets and Matt palms the knife up his sleeve, five sharp inches and fifteen passengers the only things between him and being arrested and tortured to death —

 

No, he doesn’t think about any of that, because they don’t do that here, and anyway, Shiro’s here with him, and Shiro could probably rip a hole in the side of the train car if he wanted to. Matt’s never trapped if Shiro’s there with him, except if it’s by Shiro himself.

 

“Hello, darling,” Allura says when they finally wade through the Port Silver Monorail Station crowds to find her already waiting for them at the fountain, so it looks like Matt and Shiro are the vanilla eggs in this situation. She gives Matt a light kiss on the cheek and Shiro a deeper kiss on the mouth. “Enjoying your visit so far?” _Have you had to scrape Matt off the floor yet?_

“Of course,” Shiro says. _No, Matt’s behaved._

 

“Wonderful,” Allura says, and then she winks at Matt and subtly shifts herself tall enough to whisper something in Shiro’s ear.

 

Shiro pulls back and looks at her, frowning. “…Here?”

 

“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” Allura says. Matt nods in agreement. “But we thought you might enjoy it.” Her voice drops to a sly murmur. “A reminder of how… thoroughly we have you when we so wish.”

 

“And Allura’s armed, so she can handle any trouble if it happens,” Matt adds, because Allura doesn’t do a cost-benefit analysis any time someone asks her to be remotely physically vulnerable in public, but Shiro is more sensible like that.

 

“We can save it for another time if you’d like,” Allura offers, but Shiro scans the crowd and then shakes his head.

 

“As long as I don’t have to get into any long conversations with Matt’s neighbors, _especially_ the telepathic one,” Shiro says slowly, “then… yeah.” He grins suddenly. “Green. Yes.”

 

“Excellent,” Allura says, and Matt rummages around in his satchel for the little bag he put together before they left the apartment. “I believe there’s a washroom around the corner over there. Would you like some assistance?”

 

“Would you like to provide ‘assistance’?” Shiro asks dryly, and Allura smirks at him. “Matt?”

 

“You two go enjoy yourselves, I’ll wait and not stand,” Matt says, tucking himself into a defensible but escapable nook in the stone benches that line the station’s main corridor.

 

“Would you like my blaster?” Allura enquires politely.

 

“Thanks, but better not risk it,” Matt says ruefully. “My trigger finger’s pretty itchy these days. I’ve got some knives, though, so I’m good.”

 

Allura nods, and she and Shiro disappear off to the washroom to enact Phase 1 of Matt and Allura’s Excellent Adventure! (pgs. 68-71 in the Kink Notebook), which will not involve incest kink so maybe they should have named it something else, and Matt’s still contemplating other possible names (Mission: Pinpossible?) when they return, Shiro looking considerably more glazed around the edges.

 

“Ready to go?” Matt asks.

 

“Absolutely,” Allura says. “Shiro, come along,” and the faint, teasing note of control in her voice might as well be a leash around Shiro’s neck as he falls into step beside her, pulled down the corridor by her words alone.

 

“Doing okay?” Matt asks him in an undertone as they get into line for the monorail.

 

“Yes,” Shiro says, and to someone who didn’t know him, know them both, it would seem completely normal, but Matt knows them very well indeed, knows that sly curve in Allura’s smile and that blissful peace in Shiro’s eyes, the way she seems taller without shifting at all and the little touches she keeps bestowing on Shiro — a tiny nudge at his shoulder making the line of his spine that much straighter, the brush of a fingertip at the nape of his neck bowing his head forward a fraction — and it’s not _normal_ at all.

 

Matt doesn’t generally call what they get up to ‘bed games’ — but he can see why Shiro and Allura do, because times like these are a game they play with each other against the rest of the world, a puzzle box of secrets and touches and looks and innocuous comments, and sometimes Matt wonders how anyone could look at them and not see it, if the rest of the world really is that stupid, or if the world is plenty smart and it’s only that they’ve given him the key.

 

The monorail ride to Central Station is just as pleasant as before — i.e. 0% — but at least they manage to score two seats on the bus from Central Station back to Matt’s block. The seats are really only big enough for two humanoids, but they manage to squish the three of them onto one bench, Shiro smushed up against the damp window and Matt on Allura’s lap, the two of them chatting about not much at all — Alric, Anawaitshe, Matt’s dual pemme campaigns, recent flare-ups of Quuduzh’s perpetual housing crisis, Maze’s delve into abstract sculpture, the annual fertility ritual on Hyue-o that Keith nearly found himself accidentally participating in — just to let Shiro tangle himself up in the sound of their voices, hold himself to them and the now.

 

Perched on Allura like a stupid clattery bird, Matt can’t do much in the Domination Department, not like Allura with her sly little touches, but halfway through the bus ride he gets irritated by how tangential he feels and tells Shiro, “Right hand, here,” pointing to the joint of his metal knee. Shiro immediately lays his right hand there, palm up, and Matt wraps his fingers around Shiro’s wrist like a cuff, squeezing slightly, his fingertips barely meeting over Shiro’s pulse point.

 

They’ve never done bondage before — never done anything in public before, either — but it feels right to hold him like this, to claim him inside and out, and Matt remembers Shiro’s worksheet and thinks: _next time._

 

He’s wondering if Allura would be into some nice old-fashioned rope bondage when the bus hits a particularly big pothole and the passengers fly upwards with a surprised shout, Allura grabbing hold of him just in time so that he doesn’t fall off her lap onto the aisle. Shiro makes no move to help, but Matt doesn’t fault him for it — they didn’t tell him to. Matt shimmies out of Allura’s hold as fast as he can, but then the bus hits a second pothole and he nearly goes hurtling face-first into the bench in front of them.

 

“Alright, you can hold onto me,” Matt tells her, willing the nerves lost in time and space to remember that it’s _Allura_ and not some stranger grabbing him from behind, and she does, the muscles in her arm hard as an iron band around his belly, sending sick little jolts of panic through him even as Matt looks at Shiro and mentally catalogs all the parts of Shiro that he’s going to hurt, until he can’t tell what’s fear or hunger or anticipation or if there’s even a difference.

 

Even though the bus stop isn’t far from his building, the rain is relentless, and Matt nearly slips and falls a dozen times on the rough, faintly bioluminescent cobblestones and then on the staircase in his building. As soon as he gets inside his apartment, he hustles Cat into her crate with the nice big oven-warmed rock he put in there for her wrapped up in two towels, Cat settling contentedly on top of it, and then turns to the business at hand, namely a) Shiro and b) getting less wet.

 

“You or him?” Matt asks Allura, gesturing at her clothes. It’s always tricky, navigating around each other, knowing who’s supposed to be ordering Shiro what, especially at the beginning.

 

“Him first,” Allura says graciously.

 

“Strip,” Matt orders Shiro, who’s standing between them silently, his eyes soft in the way that means they need to get some explicit confirmation of his safe hand signs soon because he’s far gone already. “Put your clothes in the laundry basket in the sink. Mine too.”

 

Shiro does, quietly collecting up the clothing like the world’s sexiest laundry service while Allura stands there dripping, and then she beckons Shiro back to stand before her as Matt finishes toweling himself off, now naked and mostly dry in his bed.

 

“Kneel for me, my love,” Allura tells Shiro, and Shiro goes to his knees before her.

 

“Your safe signs. Show them to us,” Matt orders, and Shiro knocks twice on the floor for _go_ , knocks once for _wait_ , snaps for _stop_ , and the new one that they’d worked out over vidcom call, flat palm pressed against the floor for _no more._

 

“Which one is it now?” Matt asks. Shiro knocks twice with no hesitation, and the last part of Matt thinking normal Matt Thoughts lets out the breath it’s been holding and scuttles off to hang out on the hot rock with Cat.

 

“Good. Undress me,” Allura commands, and Shiro shuffles forward to start with her sandals, carefully unbuckling them to slip them off her feet as Allura stares down at him, benevolent and imperious.

 

Matt doesn’t want to look away but he doesn’t really want to watch this, either. He knows in a vague sort of way that Shiro’s service inclination and Allura’s simultaneous inclination to be served run deep, but they tone it down a lot when they’re around him, for which he’s grateful. He enjoys Shiro’s service when he feels like he’s getting one over on Shiro, which is some grimy little urge that he’s definitely not going to peer at too closely, but the few times that Shiro tried turning the quiet, lavish worship that he bestows on Allura onto Matt freaked Matt out so badly that he ended up asking Shiro to stop and move on to something else, mostly blowjobs, and once just immediately safeworded out of the entire scene.

 

Matt knows that Shiro’s service thing has a lot less to do with what his partners want and more with what Shiro himself needs — that being useful soothes the same part of Shiro’s soul that cries out for him to be used, that he’s the furthest thing from powerless, that Matt and Allura see the same thing in Shiro and just pull it at different ends. It’s still uncomfortable.

 

Her sandals off, Shiro stands up to unfasten her dress, slipping it off over her head before unclasping her jewelry piece by piece and slipping her underwear off her hips, down her legs, getting down on his knees again so that he can pick them up as she steps out of them.

 

“Good,” Allura tells Shiro, tender and absolute. “You’re being very good.”

 

Matt has a crack about sparing the rod and spoiling the Shiro, but for once he keeps his awesome wit to himself. He’s certainly not going to spare Shiro the rod — once he actually buys a rod, anyway — but there’s no such thing as spoiling Shiro too much, no such thing as too much praise or assuring him that there’s one place in the world where he can never do anything wrong.

 

“Fetch the towels and dry me off,” Allura tells Shiro, and Shiro moves dream-like to the stack of towels and then back to her, patting her hair from wet to damp before moving to her ears and face and neck.

 

Allura holds out her arms slightly, prompting him, and he moves down her body, no inch of her left unattended to. There’s no hint of desire from him, his cock soft and small as he cups her breasts to dry the skin underneath, gently rubbing at her powerful hips and pubic hair and between her legs, and considering how many firm hints of desire Shiro has for Allura on a regular basis, even though he’s getting older and any reasonable person would start having some dysfunction by now, it makes it even better to know that his body won’t do anything here that they don’t order him to do. Speaking of which.

 

“Have you decided what you want to do with him?” Matt asks Allura as Shiro crouches down to dry off her lower legs, the position revealing the butt plug that Shiro’s been wearing since Allura whispered their offer to him and took him away to put her fingers in him and tell him how beautiful he is and remind him with every step that he’s theirs.

 

“I believe so,” Allura says, lifting her foot so that Shiro can dry the sole. She puts her hand on his head when he’s done; not patting, not pressing, just there. “I don’t believe it’ll interfere with your plans.”

 

Matt grins. “Good. I like my plans.”

 

“It will probably require some creative arrangement of furniture to accommodate your legs, but nothing too odious,” Allura says. “Shiro, move the comfortable chair to the edge of the bed, there, in front of the mirror. The jewel on the end is lovely, by the way,” she tells Matt, nodding the pale blue crystal sparkling whenever Shiro bends over and it catches the light. “Did Shiro pick it out?”

 

“I did,” Matt says proudly. “I was thinking of you.”

 

“You do know how much I love sparkly things,” Allura says.

 

“Well, you know how much I love S— sparkly things too,” Matt finishes hastily, and Allura raises an eyebrow at him knowingly but doesn’t comment, merely settles down in the chair and adjusts the angle a bit.

 

“Shiro, my love, you were wonderful, you did exactly as I told you to do,” Allura tells Shiro as immediate distress over failing to position a chair 100% perfectly clouds in his face. “Come sit between us here, in whatever way is most comfortable for you. You’ll be there a while. Unless you need him in a particular position?” she asks Matt.

 

“Nope,” Matt says, rolling over on the mattress to collect the Box of Fun he’d super cleverly put by the bed earlier before scooting back to sit behind Shiro, who’s cross-legged before Allura, her legs spread and his face about level with her groin. Matt mentally commends her for her good taste, and even more so when he realizes that she’s angled the chair so that he and Shiro can see each other in the mirror out of the corner of their eye, enough that Shiro won’t be afraid of some unseen threat causing him pain. Matt strokes down Shiro’s back experimentally, then dares a sharp pinch to his side, and Shiro doesn’t freak out, just breathes deeply and contentedly. A++ with honors to Allura.

 

“You are going to feel what I do to you,” Matt whispers in Shiro’s ear. The mantra, the magic words, the line of code that breaches the firewall. “No matter what I choose to do, how much or how little, you will not ignore it. You will not get used to it. You are going to take it, and feel it, and keep taking it, and keep feeling it, as long as I want you to, until I tell you to stop. Are you going to do this for me?”

 

Shiro knocks twice against the mattress. _Yes._

 

“Good,” Matt says, and puts the first clamp on Shiro’s left nipple, enjoying the way Shiro jumps and breathes out hard through his nose, and even more as Shiro hisses when Matt puts the clamp on the right nipple too, tugging lightly on the connecting chain partly to test whether they’re on securely but mostly because every twitch and choked-off noise from Shiro makes Matt’s blood hotter and his lungs deeper and his vision sharper and the world bright, clear, _real._

 

“Wonderful. Shiro, my love. Attend to me,” Allura tells Shiro, and she reaches out to cup the back of his head and guide him between her spread legs. He obediently begins to lick at the small, sensitive sliver of her retracted genitals that she exposes for sex when she’s not in a penetrating mood, and she sighs in satisfaction, sinking back even further into the padded chair.

 

Push and pull — that’s how Shiro’s described being with them like this, but Matt prefers to think of it as take and take, Shiro caught between them and giving them any part of himself that pleases them. Allura will take his worship and warm hands and clever tongue and Matt will take a line of clothespins on a string from his Box of Fun and a pinch of skin low on Shiro’s side and put the first clothespin on, and the snap of the spring as the pin bites into Shiro’s skin is like cracking the keyword of a Vigenère cipher, looking at all of Shiro’s smooth, unmarked skin laid out vulnerable before him and thinking, _this is mine to break down, this is mine to solve_ _._

 

He adds the next clothespin in the string right above the last clothespin. They’re mean little things, plastic and bought specifically to use on Shiro, but Allura snorts at the color — bright tropical pink instead of the wooden ones he uses for laundry.

 

“I’m not going to use just whatever I pulled off my washing line,” Matt points out. “They splinter. Besides, he likes this color for my stuff.”

 

“That is true,” Allura agrees, who knows Shiro’s medical triggers as well as anyone, although she’s far less into instruments beyond a bar of soap when she apparently makes Shiro bathe her, so she’s far less likely than Matt to run into them.

 

And boy, Shiro has a lot of them. There was this really cool spiral pattern that he wanted to do, but that would go right through Shiro’s abdominal area, and that’s a no-no zone, because Haggar was particularly fond of taking things out of Shiro’s abdominal cavity and putting things back in and not particularly concerned with whether Shiro was aware, only that he was sedated and immobile. Shiro says he remembers watching all 20 feet of his small intestine being pulled out of his body, a few inches at a time, and being replaced with a new one, coated in some purple casing.

 

Matt adds another clothespin above the last one, every pin more painful as he gets closer to the tender flesh high up on Shiro’s ribs and underarm. In a way, he almost understands what Haggar was doing. Shiro’s so beautiful — who wouldn’t want to take him apart and make him even better? _(Feel this…)_ And she did. She made him stronger, tougher, deadlier; she even made him healthier. Reached down into his very DNA and fixed what was broken.

 

Matt adds the last clothespin in the first zipper, flicking it with a fingernail to see Shiro twitch. Shiro didn’t tell anyone but his soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend when he was diagnosed at 18. He wanted to be an astronaut, and no one in their right mind would pour millions of dollars into sending a man with andrenomyeloneuropathy into space — a man who was already starting to stumble on his daily runs, who stood tall and proud on the parade ground but had to find a chair to collapse into the minute he was alone.

 

Another clothespin. Matt has no idea how Shiro managed to hide his illness for so long from so many people, or how he survived the Arena before Haggar took a dedicated interest in him. Matt hadn’t even known that Shiro was sick until Pidge told him that somehow, impossibly, Shiro had gotten better. Another clothespin. Shiro’s _ABCD1_ gene is totally normal now. Another clothespin. His VLCFA levels are normal now too. Another clothespin. His ACTH levels, normal. Another clothespin. His cortisol levels, normal. Another clothespin. His MRIs, normal. Another clothespin. Everything and anything Team Voltron and their doctors could think to test for, normal. Nobody knows how she did it. Another clothespin. Nobody knows how many people had to die so that Shiro could live.

 

Matt finishes the second zipper by grabbing a pinch of the flesh below Shiro’s underarm and twisting hard, Shiro letting out a surprised yell, then snapping the last clothespin in the string on right where he grabbed and leaning back to admire his handiwork — two long line of clothespins marching up Shiro’s sides, the ends of the twine connecting them dangling free like a promise. Matt flicks at the newest one with a fingernail, then another one, then another, and then reaches out with both hands and trails his fingers through both lines, making the clothespins flutter like wings.

 

Shiro hasn’t stopped servicing Allura, which to be honest is a little annoying — he wants to be able to see Shiro’s face for this, wants to take him apart and make him watch it all and feel it all and _see_ what it feels like to him, so Matt asks Allura, “Hey, can we turn him around for a few minutes? You’re getting such a great view right now, it just seems fair.”

 

“My great view is the top of his head and you,” Allura says dryly, although her unaffected tone is a little spoiled by the fact that no one ordered Shiro to stop so he’s still going and she’s very clearly affected indeed. “But in the spirit of cooperation, he may take a break for a few dobash.” She pets the top of Shiro’s head. “Shiro, darling, you may stop until I tell you to resume.”

 

“Don’t tell him to turn around yet,” Matt says, and grabs the trailing string end of the first clothespin and yanks the whole line of clothespins off, and Shiro _howls_.

 

“Yeah, there’s going to be more of that,” Matt says gleefully, “a _lot_ more,” and Shiro shudders, pressing his face into Allura’s thigh, so Matt pets his back gently and asks, “Hand sign?”

 

Two knocks on the mattress. _Yes._

“Great,” Matt says brightly, and rips off the second zipper.

 

Shiro lets out a sob _(feel this)_ and Matt stares fascinated at the two lines of pink marks running down Shiro’s sides, reaching out to poke and then scratch gently at one of the marks and grinning as it makes Shiro flinch. It’s the first time he’s ever used these and he has no idea why it took him so long, because the fear of _too much_ that seemed so huge to the scared little Matt that isn’t here anymore, replaced by someone else, bright and terrible — it seems ridiculous, “too much”, because this isn’t even _enough_ , Matt wants to fucking take Shiro apart, cut deep into him until Shiro can’t do anything but feel what Matt wants him to feel and what Matt wants him to feel is _everything._

 

“Okay, now you can turn over,” Matt tells Shiro, and looks at Allura questioningly.

 

“Lean back against me,” Allura tells Shiro, and he does. “Good. You’re being so good for us, darling.”

 

“Yeah, you are,” Matt says, smiling at Shiro, who’s soft-eyed and sweaty and breathing hard. Not scared, never scared _(please God let Shiro never be scared—)_ , but fantastically used.

 

“Hey, you want to see something cool?” Matt asks Allura. She nods, amused, and he unclips the clamp from Shiro’s left nipple, and Shiro screams, all the blood rushing back into his flesh in one terrible instant. Everything is so sharp to Matt right now, the roughness of the sheets and the salt-sweat beading up on all of them, the power in every damn mitochondria like a nuclear reactor under his skin — and Shiro and Allura could kill him before he even had time to realize, Matt knows that, an idiot would know that, but right now they couldn't even touch him. Right now  _Matt_ is the most dangerous thing in this room, in this city, in this galaxy, scared of nothing and no one, not even himself.

 

He unclips the second clamp; Shiro barely bites back the scream this time, fighting his body to not protectively curl away from Matt as Matt roughly rubs and flicks at his nipples afterwards. Wow, nipples are so great.

 

“Hand sign,” Matt orders, and Shiro shakily knocks twice against the mattress. _Yes._

 

“Awesome,” Matt says, and starts on the newest zipper near Shiro’s left pectoral, this time with one of the shorter clothespin strings he’d prepared. He falls into the rhythm of the work, Shiro trembling against Allura _(feel this)_ and breathing harder as each clothespin bites into his flesh, sobbing out as the zippers are ripped off, Matt deadlier and happier with every one.

 

“Hand sign,” Matt orders after he rips off the zipper on Shiro’s left pectoral.

 

Two knocks, surprised tears springing to Shiro's eyes. _Yes._

 

“Hand sign,” Matt orders after he pulls the zipper off Shiro’s right pectoral, pop-pop-pop one-at-a-time slow.

 

Two knocks from Shiro, jerky and uncoordinated. _Yes._

 

Shiro in subspace doesn’t really _do_ anticipation because everything is one long floating moment for him, somewhere outside of time where he barely feels his own body other than a collection of sensations — but it’s almost more fun that way, because every time Matt yanks off a zipper it’s like Shiro’s experiencing it for the first time, he never gets _used_ to it, he’s never just putting up with it, and even though right now Matt doesn’t really give a fuck what Shiro wants because right now the only thing that matters is that Matt has the power to take what _he_ wants, he’s glad.

 

“I would like him back eventually,” Allura reminds Matt.

 

“I know, and you can have him,” Matt says as he methodically works his way up Shiro’s left inner thigh, and then winks at her. “And _have_ him, he’s probably pretty dang loose by now.”

 

“Mm, that is true,” Allura muses, petting Shiro’s hair. “Which reminds me — Matt, hold on for a moment, we should probably apply more lubricant. We wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

 

“I totally want to make him uncomfortable,” Matt says, but invites Shiro to sprawl across his lap anyway as Allura climbs down from her throne and works the plug out of Shiro’s ass to add more lube. Matt’s desperately hard and has been for a while, his erection basically poking Shiro in the cheek. He considers ordering Shiro to give him a blowjob, but he wants to finish those zippers and he’s sensing that Shiro’s approaching his limit, drastically lowered by Matt’s little neural shortcut mindfuck.

 

Allura’s clearly thinking about cutting off Zipper Time and just taking her pleasure from Shiro now, so temptingly positioned, but because she’s a great friend she settles for fucking him with the plug for a few wet thrusts before seating it back in him, Shiro reflexively flexing around it, and Matt realizes that Shiro’s probably been clenching down on it every time he pulls off a zipper, and that’s just a cherry of supernova-hot on a cake of awesome, although it’s a little less awesome when Matt notices that Shiro’s favoring his bad shoulder, which he’s probably been pressing wrong into Allura’s leg as he leaned back against her.

 

“Hey, since you’re down here anyway, can he just lay down for this last part? I think his shoulder is starting to go,” Matt tells Allura, who frowns.

 

“You’re right, I believe,” Allura says as she manipulates Shiro to lay back against her lap so she can keep petting his hair while Matt rips pinchy things off his body. She’s very into the hair-petting. “Why hasn’t he signed?”

 

“He probably just doesn’t notice,” Matt says, readying what’s probably going to be the last few zippers. “There’s a lot going on right now.”

 

“Shiro, if you feel your shoulder bother you, sign to us,” Allura orders him. “Do you understand? Hand sign.” _Yes._ “Good. You’re being very good.”

 

“Yeah, you are,” Matt says softly, petting Shiro’s thigh and cursing himself for not praising Shiro enough outside of his own head, because Shiro’s being awesome and it’s very wrong that Shiro might not be 100% sure of that every single second of this morning. “You’re being perfect.” He puts the first clothespin on Shiro’s right inner thigh, then the next. “You’ve been perfect.”

 

Three more clothespins, and he pulls the one on Shiro’s left thigh off slowly, one clothespin at a time. “Hand sign.” _Yes_ , and Shiro’s barely keeping his legs spread wide for Matt — the zipper on Shiro’s left upper inner arm, ripped off in one fast pull, and Shiro keens. “Hand sign.” _Yes_ , and Matt’s breathing hard now, because Shiro’s so close, his face screwed up in pain and sensation — the zipper on Shiro’s right upper arm. “Hand sign.” _Yes,_ and Shiro might actually be crying, _feel this—_

Matt pulls the zipper off Shiro’s right inner thigh slowly, pop-pop-pop, and at the very end he yanks the entire thing off in one brutal rush and Shiro screams again, his eyes bright with tears, because it’s been too much, not nearly enough, Matt wants to do this forever but Shiro is crying helplessly now, _feeling_ more in this moment with Matt than he probably has in the entirety of this entire month, Shiro's normally-dulled nociceptors singing like a thousand-person chorus, and Matt desperately wants someone to touch him right now, or wants to touch himself, that sounds good, he’s barely going to last anyway, too much for Shiro and not nearly enough for him —

 

“Hand sign,” he orders breathlessly, his hand already moving on his cock above Shiro, above what he has wrought.

 

Shiro desperately flattens his palm against the mattress — _No more,_ he silently begs, and Matt jerks hard and comes all over Shiro, striping across Shiro’s chest and abdomen and the dozen lines of pink clothespin-marks that claim Shiro as his _._

 

“Okay, now he’s all yours,” Matt says breathlessly, waving vaguely at Allura, and she laughs.

 

“Oh, he is delightful,” Allura murmurs, and turns Shiro over and pulls out the plug so she can drape him over Matt’s lap and grab his hips and fuck him — long, strong thrusts that have her breasts bouncing with effort and Shiro sliding back and forth slightly, his painfully sensitive skin rubbing against Matt’s legs, and there’s no way that Matt's getting hard again after an orgasm like that but wow, this is definitely going in the bank.

 

“That looks fun,” Matt comments to Allura, who’s so close that he could lean over and kiss her if that was the kind of thing they do during scenes, which it isn’t.

 

“I’d say you have no idea, but I know that you do,” Allura says, panting, and Matt laughs too, pressing and scratching lightly at the zipper marks on Shiro’s exposed side, slowly coming down from the high.

 

She fucks Shiro for a long time — curse her athletic stamina! — until he’s flopped boneless over Matt’s lap, wrung out and used and exhausted, and then she fucks for a while longer just to prove her point, taking as much pleasure as she wants for as long as she wants it, Shiro having absolutely no say in the matter.

 

“Are you just going to keep going until this evening?” Matt teases her.

 

“Mm,” Allura says, and Matt knows that they both have a sudden vision of exactly that — passing Shiro back and forth between them the entire day, barely able to rest from one of them before being taken by the other until he was so exhausted that he could barely move — maybe they could tie him up between rounds, he’d like that, safe and helpless, theirs to do anything and everything they wanted to him —

 

“We should do that sometime,” Matt says hurriedly. “We should really, _really_ do that sometime.”

 

“Yes, I think so,” Allura gasps, and promptly shudders and cries out in the way that means she’s orgasmed, bracing herself with her hands on Shiro’s lower back, and then she adds some more lube and fucks him for at least ten more minutes before she comes again, because she’s a fucking show-off.

 

Matt’s pretty much stuck where he is, so Allura’s in charge of clean-up, gently pulling out of Shiro and going to the bathroom to fetch the warm washcloth that Matt had helpfully left folded up on the sink while Matt rolls Shiro until he’s on his back staring up dreamily at Matt.

 

“Hey, Shiro,” Matt says softly, and his back is already starting to complain at being sitting and bent over for so long, so he gently thumbs across Shiro’s cheekbone instead of kissing him, feeling Shiro’s tears wet against his skin. “Can you hear me?”

 

_Yes._

 

“I need you to sit up and drink some for me, okay?” Matt tells him, fishing around by the side of the bed until he comes up with the water bottle that he’s stashed there. Shiro obediently sits up and drinks, although Matt has to actually guide it to his mouth, Shiro clearly lost with any direction more complicated than _sit up._

 

Allura returns with the washcloth, and she cleans off his chest and stomach and then turns him back over so she can clean the lube from his ass and thighs, then the two of them work together to whisk off the top sheet that Matt had laid over his normal sheets and roll Shiro up like a blissed-out burrito in the featherlight blanket that Matt got from his neighbor Yavvi in trade for fixing a broken fuse, because Shiro needs the warmth and pressure even though it’s like 85 degrees Fahrenheit in Matt’s apartment right now even with the cold-absorbing stone the building is made out of.

 

“You were magnificent, my love,” Allura tells Shiro, snuggling up against Shiro’s back and shifting larger so Shiro can be an even littler spoon.

 

“You were good for us,” Matt says, positioning himself so that he’s looking down at Shiro a little, close enough to pet his hair and shoulder. “You were really, really good,” and they keep this up, softly reminding Shiro how wonderful he is, how beautiful, how good, how perfect at pleasuring them and pleasing them and making them happy, and after a while Shiro opens his eyes and looks at Matt and smiles.

 

“Welcome back,” Matt says. “Did you have a good trip?”

 

Shiro nods dreamily.

 

“Rest a while,” Allura suggests, and Shiro does, sinking back into their embrace, and Matt and Allura hold him for a long time, so thankful for all the gifts they were just given.

 

 

*

 

 

Shiro doesn’t drop this time — thank the flying spaghetti monster, or whatever cruel and random deity is playing tiddlywinks with the universe — and although he could probably happily spend all day in bed with them being petted and praised and cuddled, eventually Allura’s stomach growls loud enough for Matt to hear, and he laughs.

 

“Brunch?” Shiro suggests.

 

“Pardon?” Allura asks, frowning.

 

“Brunch,” Matt says. “Has Pidge not introduced you to Sunday — well, Eighthday —  brunch? Like if breakfast and lunch had a delicious baby. It’s the best American food tradition, or at least in the Top 10, right behind really good Chinese takeout on Christmas Eve,” and then packs them all into the shower and then out into a bubble cab to The Bakery, where Eeli magically manages to find them a tiny table and three reasonably comfortable chairs despite the weekend rush.

 

She even crams them in an area with good sight-lines and not terrible exits, which is super considerate of her, although Matt supposes a panicked vet breaking down in the middle of a crowded restaurant and knocking over patrons on his way to perceived safety isn’t great for business and he’s done that at least once at another Hive restaurant (The Noodley), so it’s also pretty shrewd.

 

“You’d think the rain would keep people away,” Allura notes, looking at the small furniture store’s worth of tables and benches jammed under the awnings, almost every single table occupied.

 

“I don’t think the mother flood would keep people away from these dumplings,” Matt says. “People would come in pontoons.”

 

“Do you think that’s a possibility?” Allura asks, frowning. “The flood, I mean. I’ve heard some rather worrying things about the state of the dams upstream of you.”

 

“Look, you’re more likely to defeat Lotor in single combat armed with a soup spoon than find some government-owned thing in Quuduzh that _isn’t_ messed up in some way,” Matt says. “Anyway, they got rid of those inspectors, and they’re saying that the spillways are fine and that the dam will last until the rains clear up and they can do more intensive maintenance.”

 

“Defeating Lotor in single combat with a soup spoon would be easy,” Allura says dismissively. “Just stab him through the eye with the handle.”

 

“Oh, yeah, true,” Matt says. “How did I forget that? Wow. It’s been a while for me, hasn’t it?”

 

“I’m sure you’d pick it up again very quickly,” Allura says kindly. “By the way, would you mind if we brought Alric along with us for our next visit? He’s been asking to come back to Quuduzh.”

 

“Uh, sure,” Matt says, blinking. “Why?”

 

“He wants to see you,” Shiro says.

 

“He wants to see his playmates,” Allura corrects. “And you, I suppose.”

 

“I’m sorry I missed his birthday,” Matt says, even though the event had been held on the Castle and he’s half-suspicious that Allura orchestrated the entire thing as a clever ploy to lure him onto a spaceship so he could shriek and dive for cover every time someone popped a balloon.

 

“It’s okay,” Shiro says, not so much telegraphing as semaphoring that it isn’t.

 

“I’ll get him a birthday present,” Matt tries. “What does he like?”

 

“Anything he can injure himself with,” Allura says. “Also, dolls. Preferably soft ones, those hurt less when he leaves them somewhere we can step on them.”

 

“On it,” Matt says, already thinking of his downstairs neighbor Iba, so incredibly clever with fabric and so incredibly _not_ with her always malware-ridden datapad.

 

“Shiro, darling, would you like me to read you the menu?” Allura asks as Shiro squints at the menu board above the counter.

 

“I can read the menu myself,” Shiro says grouchily.

 

“He needs prism glasses,” Matt tells Allura. “Or laser surgery.”

 

“I already have reading glasses, and I’m not getting any more surgery,” Shiro snaps. “I don’t care if it’s a simple procedure.”

 

“Hunk has talked to you about this too, hasn’t he,” Matt guesses.

 

Shiro scowls.

 

“Personally, I find it fascinating,” Allura cheerfully interjects. “All these problems you humans have with your eyes. And your teeth! So fragile. I don’t know how they’re not constantly falling out.”

 

“Speaking as someone with twenty-six teeth, that does happen,” Matt says. “Although mine didn’t fall out, they were knocked out, and Shiro’s are all artificial now, so maybe we’re not the best sample size for actual dental disease. Shiro, does anyone else on Team Voltron have tooth problems?”

 

“Ooh! Xiomara got a cavity last year,” Allura says excitedly.

 

“Odd thing to ooh,” Matt mutters.

 

“Shiro, when Alric’s adult teeth start appearing, don’t throw away his baby teeth,” Allura orders him. “I’m going to commission a necklace.”

 

“Let’s hope he won’t get that old enough for that any time soon,” Shiro says, smiling a little sadly at her.

 

“Darling, if he took after me, he wouldn’t even be crawling by now,” Allura says, her answering smile a little too relaxed to be real.

 

“A necklace?” Matt asks hurriedly. “For Alric or you?”

 

“For me, of course,” Allura says. “Although he can borrow it if he’s very careful. I certainly loved wearing Father’s teeth-piece. It was an unusually simple design for an Imperial piece, but it was undeniably lovely. And Grandmother had three children, so hers was quite striking. Very fitting for both of their personalities, really.”

 

“I didn’t know you had… aunts? Uncles?” Shiro asks her. “You never mention them.”

 

“Two aunts, but they were executed long before I was born,” Allura says dismissively. “They tried to stage a coup. Not a particularly well planned one.”

 

Shiro stares at her. “Your grandmother executed her own daughters?”

 

“Well, had their coup succeeded, they would have executed her,” Allura says calmly. “As she’d done to her uncle, in fact — although that was assassination by poison, so I’m not sure that it counts.”

 

“Right,” Shiro says faintly.

 

“I may have been named for her, but I’m not her,” Allura says softly. “I’d die before I ever harmed Alric, and I’ll certainly kill anyone who attempts to harm him either.”

 

“I know,” Shiro says, reaching out to gently squeeze her hand.

 

“I thought you were Allura I,” Matt says, curious.

 

“Yes, but ‘Allura’ came from Allira, sixth of her name,” Allura explains. “I suppose Father thought that having seven of her name would be somewhat excessive. Grandmother wasn’t bothered by it. If she was, I would have been named Allira. He wouldn’t have dared go against her, not after Almira and Almalor. His sisters,” she explains.

 

“You definitely win the Most Screwed Up Family award,” Matt tells Allura.  “And the Most Misinterpreted By History award too, you can accept that on behalf of the entire Altean Empire.”

 

“The latter we certainly deserve, but I’m not sure I merit the former,” Allura says, carefully not looking at Shiro.

 

“Oh, yeah. Maybe not. Seriously, do you want me to just order for all of us?” Matt asks Shiro, who’s squinting at the menu board again. “Or better yet, just order fifteen of everything, all of it’s good. Maybe twenty of the cheese dumplings, the ones with the glaze —”

 

“— oh, like the ones in your cooler?” Allura asks. “I loved those!”

 

“So you’re the dumpling thief,” Matt says accusingly. “I thought it was Cat. Or the aunties.”

 

“No, I ate all of them,” Allura says, unrepentant.

 

“Just for that, you can go get the food,” Matt says. “And the fact that you can literally turn your elbows into points, that’s a good reason too.”

 

“And tea too, please,” Shiro adds, and looks at Matt. “Qap?”

 

“Qab,” Matt corrects him. “Like Quabi — “u” and me and the tea are Quabi, except “me” is actually an “i” and I’m not Quabi and you’re not Quabi either, but it’s still a fun memory device! It rhymes.”

 

“You’re a little Quabified,” Shiro says as Allura bustles off, already shifting her elbows pointier and her midsection into plates of chitin armor under her dress. “You’ve been here half a year, and it only took me a few months in the U.S. to start getting Americanized. Quuduzh is showing on you.”

 

“Well, I am disorganized, always late, and kinda obsessed with dice-based roleplay games, but that’s me not turning Quabi, that’s just me being me,” Matt says. “Are you okay? You’re kind of… squirming.”

 

Shiro crooks a smile at him. “Just sore.”

 

“Oh,” Matt says. “Um. Are you— Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Shiro says, grinning. “I’m great.”

 

“Oh, okay. That’s great. Awesome,” Matt says, and oh look, he’s the one that’s fidgeting now. “Hey Shiro, do you care that I never give you blowjobs?”

 

Shiro blinks at him. “…Uh, no?”

 

“It’s not a distaste thing,” Matt tells him.

 

“I didn’t think it was,” Shiro says.

 

“Or a stupid masculinity thing. Or an ‘I’m bi but not actually comfortable having reciprocal sex with men because I’m still insecure in my sexuality’ thing,” Matt continues.

 

“I didn’t think it was that either,” Shiro says.

 

“It’s not a judgement on people giving blowjobs either,” Matt says. “I don’t think it’s demeaning or anything — unless that’s, you know, what you both want to bring into it. I don’t think less of you or Allura because you both like it.”

 

“I don’t think you do,” Shiro asks, frowning now. “Was there something that brought this on?”

 

“It’s just — it’s occurred to me that I’m not the most creative of bed partners,” Matt says, tracing the tentacle-dick someone drew on the table so he doesn’t have to look Shiro in the face.

 

“Matt, if there’s one thing you never lack in bed, it’s creativity,” Shiro says. “Seriously, did something happen?”

 

Matt shrugs. “Everything was great last night, and it’s always great, it’s the oral sex city that never sleeps, you’re both really generous, and then when it’s time for me to reciprocate with you literally _ever_ , it’s just —” He imitates a jerking motion, complete with a sad trombone noise. “Waah-waah.”

 

“Funny, because I think of sex with you as a lot less sad trombone and a lot more oh, please, Matt, _yes_ ,” Shiro says, dryly.

 

“Why are we making sex noises?” Allura asks as rejoins them, juggling three drinks and a plate stacked high with a truly ridiculous amount of hotcakes and honey-glazed cheese dumplings.

 

“Matt’s having a blowjob crisis,” Shiro informs her as she distributes the drinks and keeps the plate all for herself, at least until he steals it when she’s distracted making faces at the spicy qab.

 

“It’s not a _crisis_ ,” Matt protests as Shiro passes him a bowl of dumplings and hotcakes. “It’s just… feeling bad. I go down on you plenty when you have flatter genitals,” he tells Allura, “but I don’t ever do that for Shiro, and it feels kind of unequal. In the not good way.”

 

“I’m not sure why you feel the need to apologize for not wanting what you don’t want,” Allura says. “I certainly don’t apologize for the things I don’t want in bed.”

 

“And last time I checked, you had pretty strong feelings on what you didn’t want in bed,” Shiro tells Matt. “I quote: “Absolutely nothing is going into any part of me under any circumstances”. Has that changed?”

 

“Not really,” Matt mutters.

 

“Then that’s that,” Allura says.

 

Matt makes a noncommittal noise into his drink.

 

“Matt, if I haven’t made this clear, I’m really sorry,” Shiro says, sounding troubled. “I —”

 

“We,” Allura interjects.

 

“— We don’t want anything from you that you can’t or don’t want to give. If we’ve given you that impression, or you’re pushing yourself —”

 

“I’m not pushing myself,” Matt assures him. “And I know that you’re not going to get mad at me for that.” Probably. “But sometimes _I_ get mad at me for being so complicated. There’s already so many things I can’t do, and it’s just — yay! Another one! For stupid reasons, like most of my shit!”

 

“They’re not stupid,” Shiro says, quietly.

 

Matt stuffs a piece of hotcake into his mouth in lieu of replying.

 

“I do feel you’re being a bit inconsistent. You certainly enjoy topping Shiro, and you’ve said before that you’d enjoy topping me, but you didn’t get mad at me when I said I’m not interested in that, you simply said alright and moved on,” Allura points out. “You didn’t even ask why not.”

 

“I assumed you had your reasons,” Matt says. “And that I didn’t really want to know them.”

 

“My reasons are quite simple,” Allura says. “Topping feels wonderful to me. Bottoming feels akin to picking my nose. And even if it did feel good, I wouldn’t force Shiro to do something he hates. I wouldn’t force anyone to do anything, by strength or by shaming — which I can’t believe I need to say, but apparently I do.”

 

“Force?” Matt echoes, looking at Shiro. “Hates?”

 

“Hate may be a strong word,” Shiro says. “Actively dislike and avoid.”

 

“Fairly sure that’s hate, darling,” Allura says.

 

“I didn’t know you hated it,” Matt tells him.

 

“Yeah,” Shiro says, sounding surprised. “Why did you think Allura and I have sex the way we do?”

 

“Because Allura’s a shapeshifter who really likes topping and you’ve got a surprising amount of flexibility and a super sensitive prostate and — uh, other psychological things you’ve said in bed that I don’t want to repeat where my T.A.’s family might overhear even though all my neighbors already have?” Matt guesses.

 

“Well, yes,” Shiro says, and then: “Wait, your neighbors have what?”

 

“Overheard us,” Matt says. “You’re fucking loud, Shirogane — pun definitely intended. Auntie Pesh told me she’s taking notes for her next dirty novel. If you see any new release from P. Deshephi, it’s probably about you.”

 

“Really?” Allura says, interested. “Do you know what the title will be?”

 

Matt squints in concentration. “ _At the Black Paladin’s Pleasure_ , maybe?”

 

“Please ask her to change the names,” Shiro begs.

 

“Look, there’s so much porny fanfic of you out there, no one will pay attention to this one in particular,” Matt says soothingly. “And I told her I’d cut her thumbs off if she set it in Quuduzh or put real me in it, so it won’t be a security risk.”

 

“You threatened to cut her thumbs off?” Shiro echoes, sounding weirdly alarmed.

 

“Maim them in a way that affects their livelihood, that’s how to really get to people,” Matt says, nodding sagely. “But she told me she was going to replace me anyway. Apparently I’m not sexy enough to sell well.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you’d sell perfectly well,” Allura says kindly. “With a few tweaks.”

 

“I don’t think a lot of people want to read a version of you two that also includes a kinky traumatized alcoholic double amputee with a million sex triggers, but thanks, that’s really sweet,” Matt says. “Why do you hate it?”

 

“It’s an invasion of privacy and I don’t like people masturbating while thinking about me unless we already have that kind of relationship,” Shiro says, glaring and stabbing angrily at one of his cheese dumplings.

 

“No, I mean topping,” Matt says. “Did… did Haggar do something? Make you do something?”

 

“Oh. No, she didn’t,” Shiro says, so at least that’s not another thing on Matt’s list of Top 10 Reasons to Cut Haggar Up Into Tiny Pieces (Number Nine Will Shock You!), although compared to some of the things that she did do to Shiro, actual sex rape might not even make it to #12. “And it’s not that it’s painful, or that I can’t get it up, it’s just… weird. Unpleasant. I don’t know how to describe it and I don’t really know why, but it is.”

 

“You’ve offered during kink negotiations, though,” Matt says, frowning. “And you made Alric, so you have to have done it at least a few times.”

 

“I didn’t say that I can’t do it, I said that I don’t want to,” Shiro says. “And it’s different when I’m in subspace, but that’s because it feels good up here to do what my partners want,” he says, tapping his temple. “Not because it actually physically feels good.”

 

“And Alric was… difficult,” Allura says, making a face. “We could have grown him, I suppose, but bioengineered hybrids have a higher incidence of birth defects and health problems later down the road and artificial insemination doesn’t tend to work well with my species, so we did our best, eventually got a little creative, and we managed.” She smiles fondly. “He’s well worth the unpleasantness of conceiving him.”

 

“And I’m guessing that by ‘creative’ you mean kinky as hell,” Matt says.

 

“Yes, we did have some fun with that part,” Allura says. “And once we actually got the process going, pregnancy was perfectly tolerable.” She scowls. “Although staying out of battle once I reached my fourth trimester was not.”

 

“Fourth trimester? How long are Altean pregnancies?” Matt asks.

 

“Too long,” Allura says, darkly.

 

“We would have rather done the whole pregnancy thing the other way around if we could have, had me carry Alric instead, but I’m not a shapeshifter, and as much as you hated it,” Shiro tells Allura, “it’s probably tactically better to be down the Princess rather than the Black Paladin. Coran can pilot the Castle, but he can’t pilot Black.”

 

“It’s nice to know that you think so highly of my military value, darling,” Allura says.

 

“Ooh, she’s going to get you back for that one,” Matt tells Shiro. “But still. Look at you, rejecting toxic masculinity and all that.”

 

“It’s not like pregnancy has anything to do with masculinity or being a man,” Shiro says. “And at this point, even if it did, I don’t care. It’s not something I need anymore. Or want.”

 

Matt blinks in surprise.

 

“…I’ve never actually asked you about gender and pronouns and stuff, have I,” he realizes. “I assumed. Which makes me one hell of a dumbass, considering I’m Pidge’s brother. Although in my defense, you’ve never brought it up.”

 

Shiro shrugs. “I’ve got more important things to worry about than gender. Like Lotor. And Shon Mir. And — well, basically anything else.”

 

Matt laughs. “I’ve met people with all sorts of genders, but I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone whose gender identity was stopping Lotor and restoring peace to the galaxy. That’s a new one.”

 

“At least I’m not always boring,” Shiro says.

 

“Really, darling, you’re not boring,” Allura tells him.

 

“I’m a little boring,” Shiro says. “I accept that about myself.”

 

“Are you — do you want me to call you something different?” Matt asks. “Name? Pronouns?”

 

“I don’t need another name,” Shiro says. “I’m still me. And I don’t care about pronouns, use whatever’s easiest. But I’d prefer that you avoid very… masculine adjectives.”

 

“Right, the worksheet,” Matt says. “I’ve been trying.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Shiro says, smiling fondly. “And it’s appreciated.”

 

“So… Takashi Shirogane, secret bishōnen?” Matt asks, grinning.

 

“Maybe a little,” Shiro says, shrugging. “Or Takashi Shirogane, secret not much of anything. Although it’s not actually a secret to the people who know me.”

 

“But a secret to the rest of the galaxy,” Matt says. “Including me.”

 

“The rest of the galaxy doesn’t need to know,” Shiro says. “The man they know, the one Auntie Pesh is writing about — he’s not real. He’s not me, he’s… Takashi Shirogane, the Black Paladin of Voltron. He’s always going to feel wrong; one more thing doesn’t make a difference. But I wasn’t trying to keep it secret from you.”

 

“You sort of did, though,” Matt says.

 

“I didn’t want to make it into some big thing,” Shiro says.

 

“And trust issues run both ways?” Matt guesses.

 

Shiro half-smiles ruefully. “Maybe a little.”

 

“Well, it’s nice to know I’m not the only mistrustful person in this— um, whatever,” Matt says. “And I don’t care what you are or aren’t. I just like who you are.”

 

“Thanks,” Shiro says softly.

 

“Also, all the ovipositor dirty talk makes a lot more sense now,” Matt adds.

 

“Men can have that kink too,” Shiro argues. “It’s not necessarily related.”

 

“It’s related,” Allura says.

 

“I’m a little surprised that you’re so… open about all of this,” Matt admits to Shiro. “I mean, you were never a dick about Lance or Pidge, but — Garrison Shiro wouldn’t have let any gender junk come near him with a ten-foot pole, much less actually talk about it. I don’t know about Zarkon-era Shiro, though.”

 

“Maybe a five-foot pole,” Shiro says, and shrugs. “I don’t know who I would have been by now if I’d stayed on Earth, or if the Kerberos mission hadn’t gone wrong and we’d all come home safe. Maybe I’d be Garrison Commander. Maybe I would’ve just ended up swinging from a rafter. But I didn’t stay on Earth, and there’s a lot of things I don’t care about proving to myself anymore, or proving to anyone else. Like I said. I’ve got more important things to worry about.”

 

“I don’t really understand your species’s preoccupation with gender anyway,” Allura says in between very well-bred bites of dumpling. “I suppose it can be somewhat entertaining to have one, but for my people, it was rather on par with getting a haircut. Frankly, I’m more entertained by the Castle mice.”

 

“Well, I regret to say that I’m one hundred percent American cisgender, and I’m reasonably attached to my masculinity,” Matt says. “So of everyone present, I suppose that in the end, I’m the boring one after all.”

 

“I don’t know — as you pointed out, you _are_ a kinky traumatized alcoholic double amputee with a million sex triggers,” Shiro comments. “I think Auntie Pesh is missing out. That’s at least interesting enough for a spin-off series.”

 

“Yeah, I could be the _Angel_ to your _Buffy_ ,” Matt says. “Darker, wetter, and fewer backflips.”

 

“And what is a buffy?” Allura asks, idly chasing the last bit of dumpling across her plate.

 

“It’s a critically acclaimed American tv show that ran way too long but was still really good,” Matt explains. “It’s about a lot of things, like hope and power and redemption and the loneliness of great responsibility, but the premise is basically a teenage girl who fights brutal, power-hungry monsters in SoCal with the help of her ragtag group of weird friends and her older father-figure advisor.”

 

“Really?” Allura asks, suddenly looking very interested indeed. “Tell me more.”

 

 

*

 

 

 **r u pidging me:** (22:07) why do i feel like you’re the reason i just got asked to pirate 254 episodes of buffyverse

 **me, an intellectual:** (22:13) bc i am ;P

 **me, an intellectual:** (22:13) clearly ur sib sense is tingling

 **r u pidging me:** (22:16) gross

 **r u pidging me:** (22:16) no requests for firefly i see

 **me, an intellectual:** (22:19) buffys better

 **r u pidging me:** (22:22) heretic!

 **r u pidging me:** (22:22) burn the witch!

 **r u pidging me:** (22:23) how’s your mechanimal coming along?

 **me, an intellectual:** (22:26) [img]

 **r u pidging me:** (22:26) that’s just a pic of a lump under a sheet

 **me, an intellectual:** (22:28) cant have u stealin my awesome ideas

 **r u pidging me:** (22:30) i don’t need to steal your mediocre ideas when i have my awesome brain to make my own

 **r u pidging me:** (22:30) observe

 **r u pidging me:** (22:31) [img]

 **me, an intellectual:** (22:32) thats just a pic of ur room w all the lights out

 **r u pidging me:** (22:33) well i can’t have you stealing my awesome ideas either

 **r u pidging me:** (22:33) otherwise how will we prove fair and square that i’m the best?

 

 

*

 

 

The package arrives in a neat, unmarked box as promised, handed over by the cheerfully oblivious faculty mailroom attendant, who hopefully thinks that Professor Holt ordered a really long, slightly clattery book but probably just doesn’t care because she’s seen faculty order things way, WAY weirder and at least Matt’s box isn’t moving or audibly breathing.

 

He’s probably crossing a professional line here, getting things like this sent to work, but while the benefit of living in an apartment building with a keycard lock is living in an apartment with a keycard lock, the downside is no door-to-door package delivery, and he’s not going to shell out the money for a private package box just for the odd care package from Shiro and _this_.

 

He could have bought it in person — it’s from the store with the glass dildos, he likes the shopkeepers, they’re friendly and very passionate about buying from small family-owned manufacturers — but it’s not… he _likes_ them, they seem to like him, and he doesn’t really want them to know that he’s the kind of person who’s in the market for this sort of thing.

 

Anyway, he’s not sure if he could actually face down a wall of whips and floggers and still remember where and when he is, and he’s tired of breaking down in public and Squiggly Time is approaching, so he’s going to get more than enough of that really damn soon.

 

At least he was smart enough to go to the mailroom after his last class, because he’s not sure if he could concentrate enough to teach with this waiting for him under his desk. The entire ride home is the exact kind of uncomfortably vivid that he drinks to blunt down — he’s hovering at his usual I’m a Functioning Alcoholic, Please Don’t Fire Me B.A.C., but he still feels scraped raw, over-sensitized, every breath of air from the open window brushing against him like lightning across his skin, and it’s all he can do to remind his body that there are Rules about proper behavior on public transit and already being halfway hard in the middle of a crowded bus is definitely on the no-no list, even if no one in this galaxy who hasn’t slept with one of the four AMAB humans this side of the Milky Way necessarily knows what an erection means.

 

He manages to sneak his way past Gabar napping on one of the padded lawn chairs in the building’s courtyard — she and her telepathic symbiotic worm are _definitely_ not welcome to what’s going on in his head right now — and clatter his way up the stairs and into to his apartment while saying hi to the minimum amount of neighbors, heart thumping a lot more than this level of cardiovascular exercise should warrant.

 

Technically this is his pregame lesson-planning-and-reluctantly-check-his-interdepartment-mail time now, but what Eena doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and who knows what kind of reply he’d write to the message about the Physics Department Bizit that he’s definitely not going to if he was trying to write the reply with _this_ and all its implications lurking behind him.

 

Besides, he tells himself as he hauls the Shiro target practice pillow off the bed, he did so much theoretical research; what kind of scientist would he be if he didn’t follow it up with practical application? A bad and naughty one, that’s what, and eventually bad and naughty scientists fall into an even deeper pit of laziness and get put on academic probation to atone for their many, many sins. So really, he owes it to his career to practice beating Shiro so Matt can get off on it! Yes. Putting this off would just be downright unprofessional.

 

Deep breaths. Matt carefully un-pillowcases the Shiro practice pillow and bungee-cords it to a chair at roughly the height that Shiro would be — will be — when he’s… where???? Matt doesn’t have a couch and his bed is way too low, he can’t put Shiro against the wall even though that would be easiest, Shiro needs to be able to see him in the Sex Mirror and anyway up against the wall is stress position is torture is interrogation they’ve both been up against the wall before so NOT THAT, how is he going to do this, what the hell is he doing, and before he loses himself completely down this rabbit hole of panic, Matt reminds himself that he can learn how to aim before he really learns how to plan, walks back to the table, opens the sex shop box, and digs past the cheerful pink wrapping paper to uncover the crop laying underneath.

 

Shiro put a crop down as a HELL YES and to Matt’s knowledge he’s never been tortured with one and Haggar didn’t go for _that_ kind of discipline, at least that Shiro can remember, but Matt skipped over the standard black anyway, going for a simple brown and a hard, narrow tress. In the closeup pictures on the website, the color had seemed warm and friendly, the leather of old books and his mother’s broken-down armchair — but now that it’s actually in front of him it’s something else entirely, a sleek promise of violence, and something inside Matt stirs at the sight. When he reaches out for it, it’s not his usual drunk’s tremors that make his hands shake.

 

“Okay,” Matt tells the Shiro pillow as he picks up the crop, the ridged handle settling easily into his grip. “Let’s do this.”

 

 

 *

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CWs: alcoholism; hypervigilance; intrusive thoughts; references to past emotional and verbal child abuse and neglect; references to past rape/s; references to past medical abuse and nonconsensual body modification; moments of body horror.
> 
> Kink CNs: Consensual pain play; power play; objectification; and a few kink activities done secretly in public.


	11. The Rest of Bem (Rainy Season)

Along with rain, Shiro, sex toys, humidity, bubble cabs, mud, biting insects, floating trash, mold, bruises from tripping over all the plants he crammed into his apartment the minute someone said _rainy_ , thunderstorms as loud as artillery battles, sewage-borne diseases ripping through the Teardrop, dating drama in the PB-C that he’s doing his best to ignore even though he’s starting to have OPINIONS on Revve’s shit boyfriend, and the horrible clouds of green pipe-smoke that the aunties cough at anyone who has to pass their rainy-season hangout spot in the building vestibule, the main thing that the month of Bem brings Matt is the Grandkid Army showing up in force at his door with designs on his produce and a mandatory invitation to the tri-weekly building bizit, or courtyard communal dinner, because apparently the best way to gain good bizi and not get a pox on both your houses is for said houses to get together and have a potluck.

 

Matt fully intends to tell the Grandkid Army to kid-friendly fuck off, but somehow, even without Gabar’s intervention, he instead somehow finds himself down in the courtyard with Cat on his shoulders, a flask on his hip, and Shashis behind him hauling the plastic basket of greens, sweetroot, and early peas that Matt helped xir harvest from his garden. 

 

He downs the entire flask within the first half-hour, the throng of neighbors around him itching along his nerves like static electricity before a storm. The algae alcohol in the flask is good strong stuff, turning the bright colors of the courtyard into a soft watercolor wash, and he installs himself at the pemme table with Meas and Pesh and lets the Grandkid Army feed Cat all the wobbly bits from the meat that they don’t want to eat and only flinches a little bit when anyone approaches him with something sharper than a spoon and endures a lot of questions like, “I heard from my man who heard from Yishe who heard from her Bebbe that your people are back, how are they?”

 

“Pretty okay,” Matt tells his upstairs neighbor Piah when she gives him one more data point for the neighborhood gossip network diagram he’s been working on. Intelligence-gathering is a hard habit to break. “Lara says Elvis has been getting a lot of headaches.”

 

“My man’s the same way,” Piah says sympathetically. “My cousin Lawah down the road, she makes a great headache balm. Saved his life and my sanity! Talk to her, and bring some of these vegetables, they’re delicious.”

 

Matt doesn’t actually want to meet Lawah any more than he wanted to meet Piah, but he also doesn’t want Shiro’s Garrison-era migraines to return just because Shiro couldn’t single-handedly stop a civil war, so he just says, “Sure. Can you point out which one she is?” and Piah does, and according to a grateful Allura the headache balm really does seem to ease Shiro’s guilt pains, so maybe there’s something to this bizi stuff other than desperate people trying to grab for any kind of illusionary control in a cruel and chaotic world where death and suffering lurk in every spaceship and shadow and barracks bunk. The point is, everything is bad and no one should hope, but also no more headaches. Yay!

 

“Interestin’ philosophy,” Pesh says when he explains it to her over the pemme table at that night’s bizit.

 

“I’m still mostly alive, so I’d say it’s a philosophy that’s worked out pretty well for me,” Matt says, and closes his eyes as he shakes the dice. “Please please please let this be higher than 7, I want this hostage negotiation to work.”

 

“2 and a blood curse on your trigger rune,” Pesh announces. “Suppose it’s a good thing we don’t like these hostages that much.”

 

As thoroughly and suspiciously trounced he gets when he plays the aunties, the online pemme game with the PB-C is going _great_ — he beefed up Ai’s health stats with a decent nebulizer, the only people who’ve died are his enemies, he’s not physically present at the games to hear the dearly departed eat tons of snacks and heckle the other players, and they’ve expanded their board at twice the rate of Meas and Pesh’s intricately character-driven game. A lot of the time that just means math that he has to hastily scribble on the back of whatever paper is closest to him — usually some student’s homework assignment, complete with Eena’s trademark ☺s next to all her red pen deductions — but sometimes all that exploration…

 

>GAME THREAD CONTINUED: ROUND 8  [ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ], [schemethedream], [fuckyoubusn91], [revvengines], [ptau_demi], [isnar11], [bluepalaBABe], [ ✿ kiria ✿ pelli ]

[schemethedream] Ai uses my biometric lock pick on the curiosities cabinet in the corner of the office.

ROLL NUMBER

>9

[ ptau_demi] Success. The fingerprint lock on the curiosities cabinet springs open, revealing the trove of documents within

ROLL RUNE

>LIGHT

[ ptau_demi] Although these documents are clearly fragile, they survive the open air outside their sealed case. They appear to be

[ ptau_demi] Hold on a second I can’t read my own notes

[fuckyoubusn91] Hey {indistinguishable} can you {indistinguishable}

[ ✿ kiria ✿ pelli ] No get your own lumpi

[ ptau_demi] Guys the autoscribe is on shush

[ptau_demi] Ai discovers that the documents are notes from the desk of Dr. Nthi Amaria

[schemethedream] head scientist on project: urusha?????

[ ptau_demi] Yes

[schemethedream] ( ﾉ ◕ヮ◕ ) ﾉ *: ·ﾟ ✧

[schemethedream] ai puts them in her BAG OF HOLDING

[schemethedream] i mean her documents case

[fuckyoubusn91] Now I’m rolling to kick that guard’s ass

 

…really pays off. The Cabal consistently passes any texts and education items they find along to his character Ai, he rolls for everything requiring a GIANT KNOWLEDGE SCORE, and everyone wins — or at least the Cabal will win, except maybe Pa’Tema, who’s clearly planning to screw them all over because Pa’Tema needs an outlet for the frustrations of being a single parent.

 

The rain has started to really bother him, though. It shouldn’t — he survived the last rainy season, and according to Auntie Meas, the rains of Bem aren’t any worse than those of Qa or Urdim — but it crawls along his nerves anyway, like the rainy-season mold creeping up his walls. For some reason, this time the storms seem louder.

 

But being a double amputee sucks in any weather and it definitely sucks in wet weather, with an increased likelihood of pressure sores from damp socks and way more falls than usual, so it’s probably just the alarming amount of expensive second skin adhesive bandages he’s going through that’s jimmying his crickets, along with never having enough clean socks, no matter how many pairs he washes and dries every night. Back when he was still in that hospital bed in the rebel base, blankly staring at the bandaged stumps where his legs used to be, Matt expected that the main side effect he’d experience would be phantom limb pain, but it turns out that the main side effect of leg amputation is actually laundry. 

 

Well, that and back pain so bad that it leaves him teaching remotely from bed, trying to smile at his students like he isn’t a human smoothie of myofascial pain and bad decisions. Bem brings plenty of that too. He comes back to class from a four-day paincation to find another two students have dropped L2 and twelve students have dropped L1, which he probably wouldn’t have even noticed had Eena not informed him of it — the L1s are basically her classes now with his name in very small letters on the new (and better organized) syllabus — and all of his students have been inconveniently productive under Eena’s beaming totalitarianism, burning through all the sample problems that he threw at Eena and then apparently spending the rest of class periods watching old baquat games.

 

“You didn’t do something science-y?” Matt asks Eena, surprised.

 

“I hadn’t talked about L2 with you, and I couldn’t seem to reach you?” Eena says, which is a very polite summation of the 21 MISSED CALLS on his vidcom by this morning. “I had the lesson plans for L1 ready, so we worked on oscillation, but I didn’t know what you wanted me to do for L2.”

 

“Honestly, your guess is as good as mine,” Matt says. “You could probably teach that class just as well as I can.”

 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t!” Eena says. “You’re a _wonderful_ lecturer. You make things really come alive!”

 

“Just call me Young Frankenstein,” Matt says cheerfully.

 

“…What?” Eena asks, frowning.

 

“Seriously, next time, just choose a topic, I’ll roll with it when I get back,” Matt says. “I’m flexible.”

 

“It’s your class,” Eena says. “I wouldn’t want to overstep —”

 

“You’re not overstepping,” Matt assures her. “Didn’t you want to go into academia?”

 

“Well, yes —” Eena starts.

 

“Perfect!” Matt says. “It’s a great chance to practice your skills. Do whatever you want with L2, you have my blessing.”

 

“Mx. Cheoboa was asking about you,” Eena says nervously. “Why you weren’t here, I mean.”

 

“What’d you tell her?” Matt asks.

 

“I told her you were in the bathroom,” Eena says.

 

“Okay, cool, thanks,” Matt says.

 

“She came by several times,” Eena says meaningfully. “I told her you were in the bathroom a _lot_.”

 

“So that’s why she cornered me in the elevator to talk about gut bacteria,” Matt says thoughtfully.

 

“Sorry,” Eena says miserably.

 

“No, thank you for covering my butt,” Matt says, and barely resists the urge to pun. “You know, again.”

 

“I understand,” Eena assures him.

 

“You’re the best,” Matt says, and Eena grins brightly, her antennae quivering with happiness. “Now, you said you had some lesson plans for me?”

 

 

*

 

 

>CHAT CONTINUED: TEAM WE KNOW STRATEGY

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Are you doing okay? You seemed distracted last night.

[schemethedream] yah im doin fine

[schemethedream] so anyway these are th AF mice i was telling you about, they live with a friend of mine — not on quuduzh so you can’t snuggle or steal or whatevr

[IMG]: 

[schemethedream] sorry about th dark picture my friend would ask questions so i made her partner take it n he still doesn’t know how 2 use camera settings

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] THEY’RE LOVELY

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] And very interesting — those almond-shaped ears must be throwback mutations, because Altean Fancy Mice for the last 100 years have been bred to have larger, circular ears. Do you know which breeder your friend got them from? (I’d probably know them — AFM breeding is a small world!)

[schemethedream] nah i think they just turned up in her house one day.

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] They probably got dumped — maybe because of the ears, some breeders are that way with mutants... Do they have any health problems? (Even if they do, it’s HIGHLY irresponsible…)

[schemethedream] not that my friend can tell

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Let me know if she ever loans them out, I’d like to try to breed those almond ears back into a few litters and see what happens.

[schemethedream] will do!

 

 

*

 

 

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Allura says.

 

“Well, you say no, but Plachu and Chuchule say yes,” Matt says, waving to them in the vidcom screen. They wave back. “And if you never let them off the Castle, they’re going to be either really bored or really inbred. Besides, you’re going to tell me that the idea of little mouse pinkies doesn’t make your heart smile?”

 

“They do, but I’m not entrusting my friends’ safety to some stranger,” Allura says.

 

“I know ALTNmice-snuggles, they’re pretty cool,” Matt argues.

 

“Do you know their first name?” Allura asks.

 

“They’re an internet friend, that’s not how that works,” Matt says.

 

“Be that as it may,” Allura says. “Inspect them in person and agree to chaperone and perhaps we’ll discuss this further.”

 

“Agree to watch Plachu and Chuchule have sex?” Matt asks, askance.

 

“Yes, of course,” Allura says. “How else are you going to ensure that they’re not being horribly mistreated?”

 

“Trust my internet friend?” Matt says, then, “Haha, no, okay, you’re right, that’s a stupid idea.”

 

Plachu squeaks and jumps up and down.

 

“Well, yes, of course you have the right to a pleasurable and fulfilling sex life, I’d never suggest otherwise,” Allura tells Plachu. “Merely that it’s important to choose one’s sexual partners carefully, and some random mouse pimp from Quuduzh is not careful. Frankly, Matt, I expected better of you.”

 

“Live fearlessly, friends,” Matt says solemnly to Plachu and Chuchule. “There’s no reward without risk.”

 

“Yes, your STI scans do indicate that,” Allura says.

 

“In my case, I think sex with persons unknown is more of a side effect than a reward,” Matt says. “You could bring the mice along when you visit this weekend. I could get Shashis to watch Cat, xie’d love that.”

 

“Investigate your mouse pimp,” Allura says firmly. “Then we’ll talk.”

 

 

*

 

 

>CHAT CONTINUED: WE KNOW STRATEGY

[schemethedream] sorry no dice my friend says i hav 2 inspect all ur setup n ur mice n then chaperon em on their fuck date

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] You’re welcome to come meet my mice! They’re very friendly.

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Well, except for Noodles. She gets scared easily. I think she was really badly socialized by her last owner.

[schemethedream] …

[schemethedream] mb some other time

[schemethedream] so anyway lets talk secret objective time bc im only 1/2way to reachin mine

[schemethedream] how tf am i supposed to make bebduzh happen th only things they export are VD and squid

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Well, if you convince Councilor Mya to incentivize their entertainment industry, you could make their main exports cultural rather than material…

 

 

*

 

 

The plan for the next Quuduzh Family-Friendly Outing is to go to Bookseller’s Lane, or maybe the vast flea market up in the Red Heights since Alric will have three adults to stop him from grabbing random things and running off with them, but when Shiro, Alric, and Allura arrive in Quuduzh, the sky is dumping buckets of rain on the city, and Matt’s back is okay enough for an outing but he’s lost every quantifiable unit of measurement of enthusiasm he has for squashing himself into a damp bus with roughly nine billion other passengers just so he can limp from awning to awning to look at a whole lot of soggy junk that he’s not going to waste money on.

 

“So your plan for not having us get wet at the flea market is… having us get wet somewhere else?” Shiro asks as Matt hustles the four of them into one of the bubble cabs pulled by a surly-faced, suction-footed mulo and its equally surly driver.

 

“Get temporarily wet on the way to somewhere dry, entertaining, and educational,” Matt tells Shiro, squirming away from Alric as Alric elbows all the adults in his attempt to get comfortable and nearly impales himself in the process on the green cane that had been a very pointed and grudgingly useful gift from the Hive. Matt would have given it away on principle, but he’s finally coming to admit that balancing without biofeedback knees is difficult, and besides, someone etched it so the pattern looks like Cat’s scales.

 

“This something is going to be educational like age-appropriate educational, or educational like you’re going to try to get Alric to sit through another two hour documentary on black holes?” Shiro asks.

 

“Black holes are cool!” Matt protests. “But no, he’ll have a great time, he can run around and yell at things.” He leans forward to the driver, shouting a little over the sound of the rain. “The Aviary, please! And I’m not a tourist, don’t take us the long way.”

 

Quabi love their public parks and gardens, and the fact that the outdoor ones spend a third of the year functioning as water retention basins instead doesn’t squash that enthusiasm for free greenery at all, but merely inspires them to shuffle it indoors too. Even in a city of tall buildings and ambitious architects, the glass dome of the Quuduzh Aviary rises well above the vast sea of shops, offices, and cylindrical apartment buildings around it, sunlight reflecting off the cut crystal to sparkle even through the downpour and give the surrounding neighborhood its name: the Dazzles. 

 

Matt’s only been to the Aviary once, and not for very long — they won’t let him take Cat in with him, for very good and obvious reasons, and it’s not like he has anyone to go with when Shiro and Allura aren’t here — but he was there long enough to a) be relieved that the building was designed so that the dazzles were on the outside and they weren’t turning thousands of poor birds blind or inspiring them to become little window-diving kamikazis, and b) know exactly which bird room he wants to take his visitors to.

 

“Did you know the Quuduzh Aviary has one of the largest extinct bird revival and reintroduction programs in the world?” Matt asks excitedly as they push their way through the crowded main entry hall and he tries and mostly fails not to flinch every time some stranger brushes him.

 

“Well, I do now,” Shiro says, glaring at the bird who just narrowly missed shitting on his shoulder.

 

“They figured out how to — well, it’s really complicated, but basically clone extinct birds from old remains, and try to work towards a viable genetic pool for natural reproduction, which is where the reintroduction program kicks in — they’re actually introducing extinct species back into the wild, isn’t that _cool_?” Matt says. “It’s literally Jurassic Park! For very, very tiny dinosaurs.”

 

“Dinosaurs were giant reptiles — Lion-sized — that lived on our planet billions of years ago before they were all killed by a meteor,” Shiro explains to Allura, and then turns to Alric, stomping and pretending to bite him as Alric squeals in delight: “Big lizards! Chomp chomp!”

 

“All of that was wrong except the word ‘meteor’, but that’s okay,” Matt says cheerfully. “I had a paleontology phase so I can fill you all in about _real_ dinosaurs after we hit up the songbirds.”

 

It’s slow going to the intended bird room, slow enough that Matt starts to wonder if this had been a good idea after all — it’s the weekend and it’s raining and so the Aviary is crowded and loud and full of things moving fast in the corner of his eye, and Alric wants to stop and point and yell “BIRD!” at every single bird he sees, sometimes the same bird multiple times, and then Shiro wants to detour through the Shon Min flightless fisherbird room, because even on a zoo trip with his toddler he still needs to find a way to psychologically torture himself a little bit, and then Matt has to stop their little caravan so he can go breathe heavily in a corner for a while away from the crowds, and THEN Allura wants to go to the Aviary shop and look at all the sparkly bird-themed jewelry — but they eventually arrive at the entrance to the bird room Matt’s wanted to take Allura to ever since he knew it existed, and she stops and stares at the sign on the door.

 

  
“The whole planet was destroyed,” she says.

 

“They don’t have every species, obviously,” Matt says. “Only the ones that people thought were cool enough to export as pets or curiosities or zoo animals. The Aviary R&R program is pretty awesome, but they can’t recreate an animal out of space dust.”

 

“How many species survived?” Allura asks.

 

“Three to four hundred of the perching birds, maybe?” Matt estimates. “Maybe another four hundred of the other clades? Not a lot, compared to how many there were, but enough that the room’s pretty loud. Want to go in? It’s okay if you don’t,” he says hurriedly. “I don’t know if I’d want to go see an exhibit of Earth birds. I just thought — you told me about hearing the birds sing every morning in the capital, and it sounded like you really missed them.”

 

Allura stares at the door for a moment, tall and still and proud in the middle of the doorway and completely ignoring Alric whining and pulling at her hand and the man who gives her a dirty look as he tries to shove past her, and she then says distantly, “Yes, I do,” and walks through the bubble entrance.

 

The room is cacophonous, what seems like a million colorful birds screaming at each other about food and territory and fucking, but Allura walks through it all for the next hour with the grace of a queen, the grace of an Empress, lifting Alric into her arms to point out this or that jewel-bright bird flitting from branch to branch.

 

“See that one?” Allura asks Alric, pointing towards one jade-and-silver-splashed bird hopping along a branch. 

 

“PRETTY BIRD!” Alric shouts happily.

 

“Yes, they’re lovely,” Allura says. “A pair of those nested outside my nursery window at the summer palace. They hatched three eggs there before they flew off. There were four eggs in the nest, actually, but one of them belonged to a sheelk, an imposter-bird, so I had my nurse remove it. I raised it myself instead.” She smiles to herself. “Uachu was my dearest friend for a very long time. Whenever I was lonely, I talked to her. Matt, do you know if they have any sheelks here?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Matt says. “Were they pretty?”

 

“No, they were quite ugly and their song was atrocious,” Allura says. “I suppose no one thought they were worth saving.”

 

“You did, though,” Shiro says, smiling at her.

 

“I’d been promised a sibling that summer, and my mother ejected a dead egg instead,” Allura says. “I wanted a friend who didn’t treat me like an Al’Ten, and Uachu certainly didn’t. The only reason she cared about my crown was to try to steal its jewels for her nest. Maybe we can find a bird to raise together,” she tells Alric. “Would you like that?”

 

Alric nods enthusiastically. 

 

“Ehhhh,” Matt hedges.

 

“When you’re a bit older, of course,” Allura tells Alric. “I was much older than you that summer. One hundred and twenty-seven years old.”

 

“That’s reeeeeeeally old,” Alric informs her.

 

“Not for Alteans, it’s not,” Allura says softly. “I was still a child at that age.” She presses a kiss to the top of Alric’s head. “But you’ll be all grown up, won’t you. Assuming you're still—” She cuts off.

 

"What?" Alric demands.

 

"Nothing, my darling," Allura says, squeezing him a bit tighter. Alric scowls and wiggles. "Nothing at all."

 

“Al—” Shiro starts.

 

“Hey, Shiro, I think I saw a cool bird way over here where you can’t interrupt their moment,” Matt says, yanking him along by his sleeve.

 

“And those, your great-grandmother loved these,” Allura tells Alric, pointing towards a red-hooded gold bird separated from the rest by fine mesh. “There was a troupe of them that lived in the North Wing gardens, and she walked there every day to feed them, no matter what else needed her attention. She always said that if the Duu were right and we all lived after death as animals, she’d want to come back as one of those birds. They’re very fierce. Carrion birds. That means they eat the bodies of things that are already dead,” she explains to Alric. “See the meat in their tray? Your great-grandmother fed them traitors, but that looks like fish. How many of those birds are there, can you count them for me? One, two, three —”

 

“—Four, five, six, eight,” Alric finishes, pointing a chubby finger at each in turn.

 

“Four, five, six, seven,” Allura corrects him. “Seven comes before eight.”

 

“Four, five, six, seven,” Alric recites, and Allura smiles, tracing over his cheekbones where his markings are under the Quuduzh Family-Friendly Outing makeup.

 

“Do you hear them, Alric?” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Do you hear the birds? This is what home sounds like.”

 

“Wanna down,” Alric whines, kicking at her as he tries to wriggle out of her arms.

 

“In a moment, darling,” Allura says, hugging him tighter. “Here, would you like to look at that fat bird over there?”

 

“Down!” Alric insists as he pushes at her chest. “DOWN! DOOOOOW—”

 

“Oh, very well,” Allura sighs in the face of what Matt estimates will be the 10,000 th tantrum in the last two weeks, judging from what she’s told him on their vidcom calls. “You’ve been very patient with me. Here, I’ll set you down, but you have to hold onto my hand.”

 

“Hey Alric, come check this one out, it’s got a special kind of beak uniquely adapted to eat one kind of nut!” Matt calls, and as soon as Alric’s feet touch the ground he yanks his hand out of Allura’s grasp and takes off running towards Matt, laughing uproariously as he charges through the forest of shins between him and the nut-beak bird and Allura scrambles after him, trying to shove her way through the throng of damp Quabis without actually getting into a fistfight.

 

“He’s like mini Usain Bolt,” Matt marvels. Alric’s technically misbehaving, but his joy at being Free At Last!!! is infectious, because Matt’s grinning too. “Go Alric go! Run like the wind, Shadowfax!”

 

“No, Alric, slow down, it’s wet—!” Shiro starts, and that’s when Alric slips on the muddy floor of the walkway and slams head-first into the guardrail and there’s

 

  

 

on the floor on the guardrail on the toddler on the ground on the street on the cobblestones in the hot sun screaming blood spurting from the toddler’s head and clotting in its hair and dripping down its face and and it’s not moving is it moving? is it moving? Matt can’t tell and he didn’t see the sniper but it has to be here because there wasn’t any blood and suddenly there’s a dying child in the middle of a crowd so  GET DOWN! GET DOWN! FIND COVER! and he wants to go run over to see if the toddler’s alright but he already knows the answer because nobody survives a headshot like that and it’s not moving is it moving? so he’s going to just hide here and watch a child die and do nothing if he moves he’s dead too there’s so many windows here there’s no cover anywhere if the sniper starts firing maybe Matt can hide under a body but if they’re using the right ammunition it won’t matter anyway bullets and blaster shots can go through two people he’s seen it all stood over a father laying on top of his baby and saw the ground right through the hole through the both of them so why aren’t these idiots running?!!!!!!  DON’T YOU GET IT THEY’RE GOING TO KILL YOU! hot sun it’s so bright here on this nothing-world that’s not worth fighting over but they’re doing it anyway mother on the ground clutching her dead son and wailing but she has to  MOVE! LEAVE HIM! she’s the easiest target in the street MOVE but he has to keep cover stay safe stay fighting stay righteous looming over him big tall THREAT flash of metal WEAPON tread boots good stance soldier weapon SNIPER run or fight run or fight does he have backup is there more than one run or fight RUN sorry kid sorry everyone RUN past shocked civilians sitting ducks targets human shields RUN _clatter_ trip fall _CRACK_

 

and when Matt finally realizes he’s in a fucking bird zoo in Quuduzh and not back on Xuuk, on Hyue-o, on Lanastadam, on Chimsan, on anywhere and everywhere he’s seen that particular scene play out, he’s shaking on the ground behind a big stone display panel in a quiet empty room and Shiro’s on the floor too, sitting cross-legged all the way on the other side of the room, looking down at the vidcom in his hands.

 

“Alric,” Matt gasps, and Shiro looks up.

 

“He’s alright,” Shiro says quickly. “He’s really upset but Allura says he’s alright. A lot of blood, but the wound was just superficial.”

 

“Why aren’t you — where is she? Where is he?” Matt asks.

 

“The clinic on Waterway Lane,” Shiro says. “That’s where the docent told them to go.”

 

“But why aren’t you there?” Matt asks. “What — Did I do something? Hurt someone?”

 

“No, you just yelled and ran off,” Shiro says, “and I’m not at the clinic right now because I’m here with you.”

 

“Oh, shit,” Matt says. “Shit, shit, shit, Shiro, go be with your family, _fuck!_ ”

 

He tries to get up by himself, ignoring the agonized shrieking in his back muscles that means he twisted something and he’s going to pay for it later with a 300% APR, but he can barely get down the stairs on a good day and he’s not getting up now without a lever and a place for someone else to stand.

 

“Let me help you, please,” Shiro says after watching Matt struggle.

 

“I’ve already had one terrible flashback today, okay? I don’t need another one,” Matt says. “Just go. Leave me, I’ll get home myself. Alric needs you there, not here. I’m at that clinic all the time and it’s not far from here, you could be there in under five minutes.”

 

“Let me help you up and we can both get there,” Shiro says.

 

“Shiro,” Matt says, “go be with him, it must have been scary as fuck, just do what you want, I’m giving you permission —”

 

“Yes, Matt, I want to go be with Alric, of course I do, but no, I’m not leaving you alone right now,” Shiro says. “Just look away or something and I’ll move back quickly.”

 

“Right, yeah, let’s play with one of my biggest you-related triggers for stupid unnecessary guilt,” Matt mutters, but he knows Shiro will stand there for hours waiting for Matt to give in and let him help even as Shiro mentally commits seppuku a thousand times for not being able to bend space-time and simultaneously be both with his son and his fucked-up FWB, so Matt looks away and holds up his hand.

 

“Just… close your eyes,” Shiro says. “It’ll be over quickly.”

 

“That’s what they all say,” Matt jokes, but closes his eyes and waits to start screaming or fighting or go limp as he’s grabbed by some stranger he can’t see — but for once his stupid hindbrain behaves, because he’s apparently a fucking dog now and he can recognize Shiro by how he smells, enough to be hauled up and righted like a badly-designed children’s toy without ‘going away’ again, and as Matt opens his eyes again to find Shiro already four feet away, he wishes for roughly the 1,000,000 th time that that part of him who’s nineteen and convinced that Shiro’s going to slash his throat with the same Galra sword Shiro used to rip open his knee will go jump in the grave it belongs in and leave the semi-living alone.

 

With the Cat cane, Matt manages to hobble to a bubble cab even though he definitely twisted and pulled multiple muscles,  _ OW OW OW OW _ , he’s going to have to RX himself more than usual tonight and maybe still end up spending tomorrow in bed. Thankfully, it probably takes longer to get in and out of the bubble cab than to actually get to the Waterway Clinic, and Matt agrees to swipe his card for more than the ride was worth just so Shiro can rush into the clinic a little faster.

 

“My son’s here with my partner,” Shiro tells the receptionist, just this side of frantic. “He’s three years old — about this tall, green shirt, white hair, darker skin than me, he came in with a head wound, where is he?”

 

“Oh,” the receptionist squeaks, who definitely recognizes the Black Paladin even if he’s wearing brilliant cerulean rather than his usual black, and she probably in retrospect recognizes Princess Allura too, even with her markings hidden and her eyes and hair shifted dark. “Um. Room 18. I guess I don’t need to ask for ID, do I.”

 

“No,” Shiro says, distracted, as he waits impatiently for Matt to limp down to Room 18, where they find Allura trying to soothe a still-wailing Alric, who has a bandage wrapped around his head, his fluffy white hair still soaked with red like a bloody cotton ball.

 

“You must be the father,” the nurse says to Shiro, and then looks at Matt. “One of the fathers?”

 

“Family friend,” Matt says quickly, in case it gives Shiro any ideas.

 

“I’m here, I’m here,” Shiro says, practically flinging himself into the seat next to Allura. Alric tries to lunge for his papa without letting go of his mama, and instead just ends up flopping over both their laps, crying and flailing on his back like an upside-down turtle.

 

“He had to have a cleaning and some surgical glue, poor thing,” the nurse says, nodding at Alric, who Shiro is dramatically sweeping into his arms and Allura is trying to gently relinquish. “But it looks like he didn’t really hit the rail as much as glance off it, so it was just a nasty cut. We ran a brain scan on him and it all looks normal, but we’re holding him here for a while just in case. He was just about to go play in our children’s area.”

 

“That’s optimistic,” Allura mutters as Alric sobs into Shiro’s chest. She still has Alric’s blood all over her skin and dress, so much that it looks like she’s been — 

 

You know what, Matt’s just going to go over here and look out the window quickly because… Reasons.

 

“We could really use this exam room, we have a lot of people coming in today,” the nurse hints. “It’s this weather. There’s always a lot of accidents.”

 

“Want to go draw some pictures?” Shiro asks Alric.

 

“NO!” Alric screams into Shiro’s left ear.

 

“Let’s go draw, darling,” Allura says, trying to subtly peel Alric off of Shiro, and then gives up when it’s clear Shiro isn’t going to let go of Alric any more than Alric is going to let go of him. “We can draw some of the birds you saw today, you’d like that.”

 

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo —” Alric wails, but Shiro hefts him up and carries him out of Room 18 and to the children’s area and Alric cries inconsolably for what feels like ten hours to Matt and by the time Allura eventually joins them again, wearing a bright pink scrub top over her bloodstained dress so that she looks a little less like an ax murderer, Alric is happily coloring what Matt fervently hopes isn’t a family portrait, because it includes both a) Matt and b) a lot of red.

 

“Is that a picture of today, darling?” Allura asks, sitting at the table with Alric as he busily scribbles with his red crayon over the smallest stick figure’s head.

 

“Yes,” Alric proudly.

 

“That’s lovely,” Allura tells him warmly. “Here, I’ll draw a bird. Matt, would you like to draw birds with us?”

 

“I’m okay over here, thanks,” Matt says warily.

 

“Please help keep him distracted,” Shiro mutters to Matt. “Otherwise he’ll remember that he’s upset.”

 

“That’s you,” Alric announces to Matt, pointing at the figure with bright orange hair and what looks like a third leg.

 

“I’m very handsome,” Matt says approvingly, trying not to look at the explosion of red crayon over the Alric-figure or the red-brown in Alric’s actual hair. They can’t wash his hair until the surgical glue has completely dried. Matt’s thinking of asking the nurses for a hat, or failing that, a separate room.

 

“ ‘M done now,” Alric announces, shoving his drawing at Allura and making to get up and run some more and probably crack his head on something else.

 

“Alric, why don’t you draw Matt a picture too,” Allura hurriedly tells Alric. “He loves your art, I’m sure he’d absolutely treasure it.”

 

“Uh, yeah, I definitely would,” Matt says, a beat too late.

 

Alric considers this for a moment, then deigns to grab a new sheet of paper and starts carefully making An Art as Allura surreptitiously hides the last drawing from Matt’s view.

 

“Mr. — Um. Mr.? Or Mz… Mz.?” Matt looks up to find the receptionist in the doorway, her tendrils twirling in anxiety. “We need some forms that need to be filled out — Just for our records, not anything that, uh, secret, but important, because we, um, need them —”

 

“We understand,” Shiro says tiredly.

 

“You two stay with him, I’ll go,” Matt tells Shiro and Allura, practically jumping at the chance to escape. “I’m here all the time and it’s just boring name-address-consent of treatment forms, and I pretty much know all his medical history and information anyway. What’s his blood type?”

 

“O positive,” Shiro tells Matt. “Same as —”

 

“You,” Matt says. “I remember. Although come to think of it, I should have put that on the worksheet too. Not that it’ll be relevant! It’s just in case of emergencies. But there won’t be that kind of emergency! I’d never even plan to have anything that could— You know what, ignore my mouth words. I’ll go fill out forms now.”

 

Five minutes later, he’s typed _Alric Shirogane of Altea, Takashi Shirogane, Allura of Altea_ , _the Castle (Ship)_ , and everyone’s vidcom numbers so many times that his hands are beginning to cramp, and he’s ‘sorely’ (heh) regretting his enthusiasm to volunteer when his spidey senses tingle and he looks up to find Gabar, head in hands on the other side of the waiting room, and almost as soon as the thought pops into his head that maybe he should say hello, Ssshhhd rats him out and she looks up and smiles and walks over.

 

“Are you okay?” Matt blurts out, and she explains that yes, yes, she’s fine, there was an incident with one of clients — yes, just that, an incident — and the boy was brought here but he’s stable and his foster family are already here with him so she’s about to leave, would he like to go get tea after he’s done with all those forms, the teashop down the block is quiet and very good and yia tea is excellent for hangovers, no, he’s not hungover — well, no more than usual — ba, yes, she sees, so did he fall again, she notices that he’s having a hard time standing, yes, he did fall, but no that’s not why he’s here, and then Shiro says, “Matt?” from somewhere behind them and Gabar smiles warmly at this newcomer who’s probably thinking a bunch of thoughts about how he wants to wrap Matt in industrial-grade bubblewrap and never let him drink anything stronger than room-temperature water, and Matt doesn’t need to have a telepathic brain-mate to know exactly where this conversation is going to go.

 

“Yep, nice to see you Gabar, but I’ve got to get going,” Matt says hurriedly, but Shiro just smiles back at Gabar and doesn’t move one millimeter, clearly recognizing a kindred meddling soul.

 

“Hi,” Shiro tells her. “Are you a friend of Matt’s?”

 

“A neighbor,” Gabar says in her soft voice. “I live on his floor. The yellow door. But I hope he considers me a friend too.”

 

“Uh,” Matt says.

 

Shiro glares at him. “I’m a friend of his too. I’m —” He pauses.

 

“Elvis,” Matt supplies.

 

“I’m Elvis, apparently,” Shiro says sourly.

 

“Ha, yes,” Gabar says. “We’ve heard a lot about you. And… heard you. But never met, I think.”

 

“…Oh,” Shiro says, confronted once again by yet another one of Matt’s neighbors who could recite word-for-word everything he’s shouted in bed. “No, I don’t think so.”

 

“Gabar az Shidashd,” Gabar offers, and then taps her head. “And Ssshhhd.”

 

“She’s the kid therapist with the telepathic symbiote,” Matt mutters under his breath.

 

“Nice to meet you both,” Shiro says automatically, suddenly stuck between charming diplomat manners and panic that someone could be reading his thoughts and judging him for them, although Matt could tell him not to worry, because Gabar reads Matt’s thoughts on a regular basis and hasn’t demanded that he find somewhere else to live so she’s obviously a pretty accepting individual.

 

“You’ve met Alli,” Matt tells Gabar. “That’s why I’m here. We were at the Aviary and he was running and hit his head on a guardrail.”

 

“Ah, poor child. I’m sure everyone was very scared,” Gabar says. “How is he doing?”

 

“He’s alright,” Shiro says, clearly not convinced that Alric doesn’t have latent brain damage, which he might actually be right about — medical technology is pretty darn advanced in this galaxy but head trauma is tricksy and complex and sometimes people with brain injuries don’t even show symptoms for a few hours or days or even weeks and am I nervously babbling all of this out loud?

 

“Yes,” Gabar says, amused. Shiro looks considerably less amused.

 

“Sorry,” Matt says. “I almost became a neuroscientist. Brains are my jam. And I guess yours too, Gabar.”

 

“The mind is not just the brain, and the person is not just the mind,” Gabar says, even though all those things are wrong. “Ssshhhd reads minds, but we work to heal the person, not just the brain, although many of my clients do have brain damage too. I’m a t-arhim,” she tells Shiro, “although I don’t operate out of this clinic. I’m based at the one in the Crescent, next to the Teardrop.”

 

“T-arhim?” Shiro asks, frowning.

 

“She’s like a social worker, but more invasive,” Matt says brightly. “The ’t’ stands for telepathic.”

 

“Quuduzh learned a long time ago that it thrived or failed with the wellbeing of its citizens, mind and body,” Gabar says, blithely ignoring Matt’s commentary. “Teach all —” indicating Matt “— feed all, house all, heal all: the four bizim of Quuduzh. Free services to all Quabis.”

 

“That sounds great,” Shiro says.

 

“It does sound great,” Matt agrees. “If you live within Quuduzh city limits, you’re legally Quabi and you get all sorts of cool stuff. Weirdly enough, though, a lot of the slums are just _outside_ city limits. Like the Teardrop.”

 

“I thought you had students from the Teardrop,” Shiro tells Matt, frowning.

 

“Anawaitshe, yeah. And Sast, Lulah, Bi’o, a few others,” Matt says. “They pay 50b a month to rent an apartment in the Crescent that doesn’t exist so they have an ‘address’ in the city.”

 

“It is not uncommon,” Gabar says diplomatically, and Matt wonders how many of her clients live in imaginary apartments too, and how many of those apartments she personally helped them set up. “But even with our limitations, we provide many important services. Care for the body, mind, and spirit. Help with addiction and trauma and grief.”

 

“Help with addiction,” Shiro repeats. “For free.”

 

“Okay, I’m going to go see if Allura wants help distracting Alric,” Matt says. “Gabar, nice to see you. Shiro, come on.”

 

“No, I’d like to hear more about this free addiction help,” Shiro says, glaring.

 

“Fine, have it your way. Don’t bother getting pamphlets, I’ll just give them to Cat for her nest,” Matt says, and clanks off with his stomach somewhere around the vicinity of the sub-basement, although halfway back to the children’s area it occurs to him that Gabar might try to convince Shiro to see a therapist _himself_ , and that thought cheers him up enough that he can slide into the seat next to Alric and look at him without seeing the toddler with half its head blown off on Xuuk, the darling baby of the family that had been hiding Matt’s rebel squad in their basement until a cloudy night came. His name had been Li, maybe? Lo? Lu? He can’t quite remember. After a while, he just stopped listening when they introduced themselves.

 

“Is that me again?” Matt asks Alric, pointing at a stick figure with a five-legged green blob next to it. Or maybe that’s four legs and a tail? “And Cat?”

 

Alric nods. “An’a bug,” he says, adding a squiggly black dot next to Cat.

 

“It’s for your apartment,” Allura says. “I explained that you don’t like having photographs of known associates in your possession, so Alric felt it was appropriate that you have something to remember us by.”

 

“Like I’d forget you,” Matt tells him, and to his surprise finds that he actually means it.

 

“Where’s Shiro?” Allura asks.

 

“Talking with my neighbor,” Matt says. “I don’t know why, she’s a telepath with a pretty good range so she’s heard every dirty thing he’s said _or_ thought in my apartment.” Both of Allura’s eyebrows go up. “You might want to make sure he doesn’t think any sensitive military information, actually. She told me before that people usually have a pink elephants reaction to her the first few times. I’d go, but I’m walked out.”

 

“You’re alright to stay with him?” Allura asks, indicating Alric.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Matt says, less than confidently.

 

“Alric, darling, I’m going to fetch your father,” Allura tells him. “I’ll be right back. Stay with Matt. DON’T RUN.”

 

She sneaks out, but Alric barely notices, engrossed in drawing as many bugs for blob Cat to eat as he can. His sense of scale is actually pretty good — sure, compared to stick figure Matt, blob Cat’s as big as a Labrador Retriever, and the stick figure that Matt's guessing is supposed to be Alric is a little big, but he did everyone else’s heights correctly, and the proportions are a lot better than any drawings Matt remembers Pidge making at that age.

 

“You’re a really good artist,” Matt tells him, and Alric grins and nods. Matt points to the blue figure. "Who's that with the cone?"

 

"Papa," Alric says, and points to the other figures. "You, an' Mama, an' Cat, an' a bird, an' bugs. Lotsa bugs so Cat can eat."

 

"That's awesome," Matt says. A thought occurs to him — a conversation with the aunties he’d had. “Hey, do you want me to add labels to your drawing so everyone knows who they are? The aunties in my building gave us all some cool nicknames."

 

*

 

  

*

 

 

“Oh, come on, like you don’t think it’s funny too,” Matt says to the glaring Shiro in his vidcom screen two days later. “Look, it's enriching his language skills! He’s got a _wesome_ motor skills, by the way. Much better than I do, and he’s three and I’m almost forty. Although I have peripheral nerve damage, so maybe that doesn’t count?”

 

“Matt, when I asked you to help distract Alric, this is not what I meant,” Shiro says.

 

“I don’t see why not,” Matt says. “Allura thought it was awesome.”

 

“Allura and I have very different feelings on Alric saying ‘shitworm’,” Shiro says grimly. “Which he’s doing _all the time_ now, so thanks for that.”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Matt says. “I was a little angel when I was a toddler, Pidge called everything they didn’t know the word for a ‘bitch’ until they were four, and of the two of us, _I_ turned out to be the weird pervert, not them.”

 

“You’re not a weird pervert,” Shiro says.

 

“I’ve got sex shop receipts that say that I am,” Matt says.

 

“Oh,” Shiro says, suddenly looking a lot more perky than prudish. “Did you get the…” He makes an abstract swishy gesture, somewhere between symphony conductor and flipping a fried egg.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Matt says, trying to summon up a smile in any flavor that isn’t ‘teacup ride stomach cramps’. “But no peeking! It’s a surprise, remember?”

 

“Yeah,” Shiro says, grinning. “I remember.”

 

“So that makes up for the drawing, right?” Matt says.

 

“Matt, my son called me a shitworm yesterday when he wanted more juice,” Shiro says. “Buying us a sex toy doesn’t make up for that. Nothing would.”

 

“Fine,” Matt says. “I’m sorry for teaching Alric ‘shitworm’. But I’m not taking that drawing down and Allura will back me up on it.”

 

“Why did I ever introduce you two,” Shiro mutters.

 

“Because you wanted an emergency babysitter and to have a threesome,” Matt says cheerfully. “And thus, my king, we live with the consequences of our decisions.”

 

He makes himself practice with the crop that afternoon. Even with his fine motor skills in the same garbage bin as his sobriety, he’s gotten the hang of aiming — quick, hard hits that always find their target, thwacking into the practice pillow with dull thuds. He wonders what they’ll sound like on skin, on Shiro’s skin, and then realizes that he’s an idiot, because he already knows what someone being beaten sounds like, the sharp slap and the cry as the rod lands again and again on his friend Biya’s chest and back and between her legs, Biya who shared her water with him, Biya who he recited the El Malei Rachamim for days later because he couldn’t do anything else for her, he just stood with the rest of the prisoners and watched and did nothing, at least this way G-d would know that someone missed her —

 

The crop jumps easily into his hand these days. It feels good. Feels like it belongs there. He’s jerked off more times in the three weeks since he got it than he had in the last six months, his hand working furiously on his cock as he imagines Shiro crying out beneath him, the crack of the crop coming down again and again on Shiro’s unresisting body. He’s even started to experiment with bigger, harsher swings. Shiro wants to be overwhelmed, after all. Can’t disappoint Shiro. Can’t leave Shiro wanting. Can’t leave Shiro unhappy, can’t leave him on the floor with bruises and bloody welts rising up on his skin _(even though Matt wants to, he wants, he wants —)_ ; can’t leave him looking up at Matt with baffled betrayal because he finally sees the thing he invited into his trust, the thing that Matt sees in the mirror every day.

 

It’s a great practice session. Steady, eager, easy. He’s starting to think that maybe, sometime soon, he’ll be ready to do this to Shiro for real.

 

He has a few drinks afterwards because his arms are tired and pemme isn’t until tomorrow night and he’s bored and then he tries to work on Birbhorse. He’s got so many cool ideas for it, he’s sure he does, but they squirm free whenever he tries to pin one down, and he’s left staring blearily at lines of code he’s been able to read since he was still having his birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese, waiting for brilliance to spring from his clumsy fingertips and sludgy mind. He gives up after he realizes that he’s written one line in half an hour, and then he keeps drinking because he’s bored and needs to do something and he’s apparently too drunk to do anything else.

 

One night won’t kill him, though. Even with his R&D problems, Birbhorse is mostly completed, and it’s awesome sauce on a biscuit of brilliance — all sleek lines and clever coding, whinnying and prancing and flapping as Cat hisses distrustfully at the metal pegasus dancing its way across the kitchen table.

 

To his surprise, he’s actually excited for the Mechanimal Competition. Pidge has never been that great at building robots — he still remembers laughing delightedly over Pidge’s trash robots, Pidge excitedly jotting down notes as Matt made suggestions on how to make them even better — and he thought that his ability to do this kind of work was dead and buried, but it’s not, not at all, he’s built Birbhorse up from bones, he saw it and wanted it and then he made it happen, he dug through the grave dirt and pulled something shining back up.

 

“Oh my frick,” Matt asks Birbhorse with a sense of dawning realization. “You, my little friend, are going to win this thing.”

 

He hits the buttons on the Birbhorse app he made, and Birbhorse whinnies in agreement and does a little dance of triumph. Cat croak-barks at it from halfway up the wall.

 

“Hey, that’s rude,” Matt tells Cat. “You’re talking to a prize show Birbhorse. It deserves respect.”

 

Cat hisses.

 

“Do you think I should choreograph a victory dance for myself, too?” Matt asks Birbhorse.

 

Birbhorse whinnies again.

 

“You’re right,” Matt says. “The answer is _obviously_ yes.”

 

 

*

*

 

 

>CHAT CONTINUED: THE CABAL

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] I had a nightmare last night.

[fuckyoubusn91] yeah?

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] I went to Urbar’s Grocery

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] That’s it, that’s the nightmare.

[revvengines] HAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] When Izhbar first told me that joke I was just, what? Why is that funny? It’s a grocery store.

[schemethedream] but now u GET IT

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] That’s how you know you’ve been here long enough — when you understand that joke!

[fuckyoubusn91] i shop there

[fuckyoubusn91] even though its fucking awful

[revvengines] I do too

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Everyone does. That’s why it’s funny!

[schemethedream] new city motto

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Haha I like it!! 

[revvengines] No more 10,000 refugees or 4 bizim

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Quuduzh: We All Hate Ourselves for Shopping at Urbar’s

 

Matt snorts to himself, tapping out a reply as he shrinks away from the giant knot of students strolling down the covered walkway, laughing and chatting among themselves about whatever normal people chat about. It’s almost time for the popular evening class period, and the walkways are teeming with day workers arriving and night workers leaving, bankers and strippers rubbing shoulders with programmers and garbage pickers, old uncles stumping along while teenagers pick up their toddlers from the university daycare, the dense and uneasily digestible fruitcake of humanity that makes up the Quuduzh University student body.

 

Matt genuinely does like it, the way that anyone who can afford the time can get a galaxy-renowned education, but right now he could do with less dense fruitcake and more airy puff pastry. There are so many people here, enough to make him strongly reconsider his decision to go lurk in the Physics Department faculty lounge until the 18:40 bus arrives. 

 

He doesn’t teach any evening classes, so he used to leave right at 16:00 after his afternoon class — sometimes even 15:30 if he let them out early because he couldn’t focus on anything but the first drink he was going to have once he got home — but lately he’s been lingering. The buses seem so much more crowded these days. It makes sense — people walk places in the dry season, but only the most aquatic species enjoy having lukewarm water sprayed all over them every time they step outside — but the rush hour crush is unbearable, the whole half-hour commute itching like worms wriggling under his skin.

 

Not that the plastiglass-covered courtyard he’s trying to skirt around is one of his favorite places either. The food vendors park themselves here from dawn to dead of night, and between students chattering and vendors heckling each other’s food quality and parentage, the courtyard is as cacophonous as the noisiest room in the Aviary. Matt awkwardly sidesteps a throuple making out way too enthusiastically by the fountain and then almost gets clotheslined by a young man in Quuduzh United colors who’s laughing with his friends over something on a datapad.

 

“Careful,” the young man says courteously, stepping back to let Matt pass.

 

“Thanks,” Matt mumbles, hurrying past as fast as his cane and the ominous chafing sensation within his right socket allows.

 

There’s a few familiar faces in the crowd, too. Bi’o rolls by, the rainbow lights on xir chair spokes flashing merrily. Sast waves to him, her expressive tendrils wiggling happily, and Matt awkwardly waves back. 

 

He’s almost to the faculty lounge doorway when he spies Anawaitshe walking quickly across the courtyard alone, looking like a crow among parakeets in her black headscarf. Not for the first time, Matt wonders why she chose such a dark, heavy fabric when most of the other Uan he knows wear their headscarves light and bright with their necks exposed — he gets a goddess asking her people for a sign of respect, but for a sign of heatstroke? 

 

Anawaitshe passes Sast, and Sast’s expressive tendrils shudder in discomfort; she turns away from Anawaitshe, but Anawaitshe ignores her. Anawaitshe passes the loud cluster of United fans, and they say something to her, but she ignores them too, hurrying past. Matt’s traitorous hand is already raising itself to wave to her when the young man who helped Matt darts out from his group and lunges for the strap of her bag, but the man misses and grabs a fistful of her headscarf instead, using it to yank her backwards as he tries to wrestle the bag away from her. The pins on her scarf go flying, and Matt catches a glimpse of… something on her head, lumpy and uneven, not the smooth folded-back expressive tendrils he would expect, and then Anawaitshe sobs and tears herself from the young man’s grasp, dropping her bag with an ominous _crack_ so she can hold her headscarf closed with both hands —

 

“Fucking leech!” the young man shouts after her, his friends laughing and hooting as she runs from them, her bag forgotten on the ground, “Bloodsucker! Get the fuck out of our city!” and Matt looks around frantically for whoever’s going to come out of the crowd to stop the man, to hit him, to yell his ugly words down and _fix_ this — but people just glance disinterestedly at Anawaitshe as she runs past them and then turn back to whatever they were doing, and it takes one of the young men sauntering forward and picking up her bag left behind on the ground for Matt to realize that no one is going to do anything, they’re just going to watch, they’re just, they’re just—

 

“Sorry, excuse me, professor business, move, very important,” Matt manages to croak, limping back as fast as he can, and he’s 100% sure that he’s in the process of fleeing the scene for safety right up until the moment that he stops in front of the young man who was so polite to him earlier and who’s now rummaging through Anawaitshe’s bag.

 

“I need that,” Matt says.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” the young man asks.

 

“Professor Holt, Astrophysics. Who the fuck are you?” Matt asks.

 

The young man looks uncertainly at his friends, then turns back to Matt.

 

“Dub,” he says, smirking, in a way that means his name definitely isn’t Dub.

 

“Cool name,” Matt says. “Very original. Give me the bag, please.”

 

Definitely-Not-Dub stares at him, considering, and Matt’s shaking a little — he was stupid, he thought the courtyard was safe, he thought anywhere was safe, and this man might be young but he’s bigger than Matt, he’s strong and tall and he’s got friends and no one would do anything — but then Matt takes a breath and peels back the Matt Thoughts a little bit and looks at Definitely-Not-Dub with the face of a man who’s done the things that Matt has done.

 

“Give me the bag,” Matt says quietly. “Now.”

 

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Definitely-Not-Dub says, too hurried to be casual, and shoves it at Matt, who barely catches it in time.

 

“Thanks,” Matt says, and heads towards the East Building Library. 

 

He has a hunch where Anawaitshe would go to feel safe, and sure enough, he finds her hiding in one of the empty private reading rooms on the first floor of the library — balled up on the floor in the corner, shaking and hyperventilating and holding her ripped headscarf closed so tightly he can see her knucklebones strain through her skin. She whips her head up at the sound of the door opening, staring stone-faced at Matt in the doorway, and he doesn’t need to see her expressive tendrils to know that she’s panicking.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Matt says quickly. “I just wanted to see if you were okay.” He holds out her bag. “I have your stuff.” 

 

Anawaitshe nods jerkily, but doesn’t move to take it from him, both hands clenched in the frayed edges of her headscarf as she gasps into her bent knees. He sets the bag down and quickly backs up, trying not to crowd her.

 

“Hey, so there’s this trick I learned from a friend,” Matt says. “Square breathing, have you heard of it?” Anawaitshe shakes her head, still gasping. “It’s great for when you feel like you just can’t get your breath. Trust me, I know, I get like that all the time. You’ve seen me! So, square breathing — you breathe in for ten ticks, hold for ten, out for ten, hold for ten — here, I can do it with you,” he says, breathing slow and deep, and Anawaitshe takes a huge shuddering breath but holds it for ten. “In for ten — hold for ten — out for ten — hold for ten —”

 

He breathes, and Anawaitshe breathes, and it takes several minutes of Matt counting with her and not moving towards her or touching her or doing any other stupid thing, and slowly, her chest deepens and her breathing slows.

 

“I am sorry, I don’t— I’m sorry—” Anawaitshe says as soon as she has her voice back.

 

“No sorry, it’s no big deal,” Matt says. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. I get these all the time too. It’s normal to freak out when someone grabs you from behind. Or from any direction.”

 

Anawaitshe nods, hunched and small.

 

“Do you have more pins?” Matt asks, indicating her headscarf.

 

Anawaitshe shakes her head.

 

“I, uh…” Matt rummages around in his bag, looking for anything that could help. “I have binder clips?”

 

He holds them out to her. She stares at him for a moment, then reaches out to accept them. He tips them into her hand without touching her.

 

“Please, can you— turn away,” Anawaitshe says, voice breaking, and Matt turns to face the wall as she re-pins her headscarf even though his spidey senses shriek about someone unseen person behind him, just waiting, any minute now, any minute she’ll —

 

“Thank you,” Anawaitshe says quietly, and Matt turns back, his own heart hammering, but he’s not going to do square breathing in front of her for himself, so he’ll just deal.

 

“No problem,” Matt says, even though his hands are trembling now. “I wouldn’t like someone randomly grabbing me either. Actually, I thought you handled it pretty well.” 

 

Anawaitshe is silent. 

 

“No, seriously, you did,” Matt insists. “I probably would have attacked the guy. That was restraint! Although as long as you didn’t stab him or anything, I would have cheered you on. What the fuck happened to the city of religious tolerance?”

 

“The same thing that happened to the city of ten thousand refugees,” Anawaitshe whispers. 

 

“Yeah,” Matt says heavily. “Yeah.” 

 

He shifts awkwardly. “Um. I’ll buy you a tea, if you want. It’s another trick I know. Focusing on something really hot or really cold.”

 

Anawaitshe shakes her head jerkily, sending the binder clips clattering. “No thank you.”

 

“If you want to be alone, that’s fine, totally cool, I can do that. But if you’re worried about money, don’t be. A cart tea is 1b, I can afford it,” Matt says, even though his inner penny-pincher is insisting that he hoard his money like Rumpelstiltskin.

 

“What is it that you would like from me, Professor?” Anawaitshe asks softly.

 

“Your academic success and general well-being?” Matt tries.

 

“To sleep with me?” Anawaitshe says. “Is that why?”

 

“What? No. What? Why what?” Matt asks, confused.

 

“Why you are buying me tea, and coming to see if I’m okay, and sending me lecture transcripts, and arguing with the technology office, and buying me a new translator implant…” Anawaitshe lists.

 

“I didn’t technically buy the implant, it was a gift to me from the Hive,” Matt says. “And anyway, no to the power of ten, I don’t want to sleep with you. At all. Zero percent.”

 

“You must be lonely,” Anawaitshe says quietly. “Eena says you don’t have family here. It’s lonely, moving somewhere new.”

 

“I have a lizard,” Matt says. “And…” Does he have friends? He’s not sure. “I have people.”

 

“Then to help you get you drugs?” Anawaitshe asks. “Because I live where I do, you think I know how to get them?”

 

“I don’t want drugs either. I don’t need drugs, my brain IS drugs,” Matt says. “Literally! Because, you know, everyone’s is?”

 

“I’m not useful to you in any other way,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Anawaitshe, I don’t care if you’re useful to me. It doesn’t matter,” Matt says. “You’re my student. It’s my job.”

 

“This isn’t your job, and you don’t even do most of your job, Eena does it,” Anawaitshe says. “Please. Whatever you want from me, it would be kinder to tell me. I just want to know.”

 

“Your academic success and general well-being,” Matt repeats. “I promise. That’s all.”

 

“Why?” Anawaitshe whispers.

 

“You asked me for help,” Matt says.

 

“I just meant with the homework,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Hard to do the homework if you don’t have the grammar to ask questions about it,” Matt points out.

 

“You don’t do these things for any other student,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Well, no,” Matt admits. “But nobody else has— um—”

 

“Needed as much?” Anawaitshe supplies.

 

“Yeah,” Matt says honestly. “You’ve needed more, so you got more.”

 

“Everyone else has noticed too,” Anawaitshe says. “They all think —” She cuts off.

 

“They think what?” Matt asks, frowning.

 

“That you… want something from me,” Anawaitshe says quietly. “And that I am doing this thing for you.”

 

“The rumor mill thinks we’re sleeping together,” Matt says flatly. Anawaitshe gives him a tiny nod. “Why hasn’t anyone reported me to Professorial Affairs?”

 

“The students like you,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Well, the rumor mill is stupid and wrong,” Matt says. “I don’t want that from you.”

 

“I don’t know what use you expect me to have, but you can tell me,” Anawaitshe asks. “I won’t report you to Professorial Affairs either. I won’t sleep with you, but I won’t report you.”

 

“Has someone tried that before?” Matt asks.

 

“I won’t report you,” Anawaitshe says.

 

Because they wouldn’t side with her anyway, Matt knows. It’s the way of the world, but the old bombmaker’s urge still stirs ugly within him, the anger that demands he burn down the world until it grows back right — but it never grows back right, no matter how many times it gets burned to bones.

 

“I don’t want to sleep with you, I don’t want drugs, I don’t want anything, I don’t need you to be _useful_ to me at all,” Matt says. “Forget useful. I’ve been _useful_ before. Useful doesn’t mean good. It just means easier to use.”

 

“If it is charity —” Anawaitshe starts.

 

“It’s not charity,” Matt says.

 

“Then why are you doing this for me and not the others?” Anawaitshe demands, louder than before, starting to breathe faster again, clearly working herself into another panic attack — or being driven into another panic attack by Matt. He has to give her some kind of answer, something that isn’t the terrifying unknown of owing someone something they promise you’ll never have to pay — but what could he say when he doesn’t know what drives him, only that he’s driven? _Kindness_ , maybe, but only a fool would believe that, and anyway, he didn’t follow her here to be kind. _Kind_ is what people are when they politely look away. 

 

He gropes around for anything that makes sense, any other words, but the only ones that come to his tongue speak in his father’s voice — _a mitzvah_ — and he is so, so done with all that shit, done with debts and righteousness and  believing that this universe could ever be anything other than war after war, cruelty after cruelty, angry young man after angry young man. The people who liberated him from Geyzam Gal set explosives behind them when they escaped the camp — burned the whole thing to the ground, and the ashes on the wind tasted like justice. Years later, Matt learned that the Galra just rebuilt it four miles away.

 

He looks at Anawaitshe, huddling even further into her headscarf as the silence stretches on, and for the first time, it occurs to him that she’s not much older than he was when he first came to this galaxy. He wonders how old she was when the Galra sent her fleeing from the horrors that had once been her home. If she’d been alone when she ran. He’s pretty sure she’s alone now.

 

“Survivors stick together,” Matt says finally. “Or at least they should. I don’t know exactly what happened with you and you don’t need to tell me, but I know what it’s like to have to figure out how to live afterwards. How hard it is. Especially without anyone else to rely on.”

 

“Survivors of the Galra,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Yeah,” Matt says. “They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s study astrophysics. And for that you need a translator implant, and I was in a position where I could get you one.”

 

“400b. That is how much the surgeon told me that it cost,” Anawaitshe says. “That’s more than my rent for a month. That’s a lot to waste on someone who still might not pass your class. Even for a fellow Galra survivor. It’s a lot.”

 

“Between you and me, I’m planning to pass everyone,” Matt says.

 

“You shouldn’t,” Anawaitshe says, then, “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

 

“It’s okay,” Matt says. “But even if you failed my class — even if you fail all your classes and have to retake everything, it’s not a waste.”

 

“And if I fail and don’t retake them?” Anawaitshe asks.

 

“It’s still not a waste,” Matt says.

 

“Don’t pass everyone,” Anawaitshe says. “It’s not fair.”

 

“I believe in learning for the joy of knowledge, not learning for the sake of a pass/fail,” Matt says. “Failing people doesn’t make them learn.” Also, grading sucks.

 

“No one knows if they are learning or not,” Anawaitshe says. “You don’t tell us.”

 

“I don’t?” Matt asks.

 

“No,” Anawaitshe says. “I think Banin’s labs are wrong, but Eena’s not sure. She’s very helpful, but she can’t answer all of our questions.”

 

“Why can’t she answer your questions?” Matt asks, frowning.

 

Anawaitshe stares at him. “Because she is a student, not an astrophysicist.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense,” Matt says.

 

“Your syllabus says that you have office hours,” Anawaitshe says. “But I can’t find your office and no one could tell me where it was.”

 

She pauses, then adds, “I have sent you several messages.”

 

“They must have gone to the junk filter,” Matt says unconvincingly.

 

“Eena is very busy,” Anawaitshe says. “And she has her own classes to think of.”

 

“The university pays her a stipend,” Matt offers.

 

“She says it is very small,” Anawaitshe says, then grudgingly adds, “She says she would do it for free. But I don’t think that’s right. She has her other classes to think of.”

 

“Professor Slom said she wasn’t doing well in his class,” Matt says, although _Slom sneered_ would probably be a better verb choice.

 

“She works very hard on yours,” Anawaitshe says quietly.

 

“I don’t have an office,” Matt admits. “The university doesn’t give offices to visiting part-time professors.” Eating a dustbin full of Cat’s shed dead scales sounds more appealing than adding even more social interaction to his day, but he should probably try to do at least 60% of his job, maybe 65% if he’s really ambitious, so he reluctantly adds, “Remind me, what did I say my office hours were?”

 

“Secondday and Fifthday, 16:00-18:00,” Anawaitshe says promptly.

 

Well, fuck. “Then I guess you can find me right here,” Matt says, and waves vaguely at the library reading room. “Or in one of the other reading rooms. I’ll make an announcement in class.”

 

“Thank you,” Anawaitshe says, then carefully adds, “For Eena.”

 

“I wasn’t trying to play favorites, you know,” Matt says.

 

“But survivors stick together,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Exactly,” Matt says. “Although I’ll try to stick to everyone else too.”

 

Anawaitshe considers this, then gives him a small nod.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop that guy,” Matt says.

 

“It happens,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“It shouldn’t,” Matt says.

 

“But it does,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“I didn’t get his name either,” Matt says. “I got _a_ name, but it definitely wasn’t his real one.”

 

“I know who he is,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Are you going to talk to Student Affairs about him?” Matt asks.

 

“No,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Are you going to tell me who he is so I can talk to Student Affairs about him?” Matt offers hesitantly.

 

“No,” Anawaitshe says, and Matt hates that something inside him breathes a huge sigh of relief. “It’s not worth it.”

 

“It sucks so much that you’re probably right,” Matt says, and Anawaitshe nods, the binder clips holding her headscarf together clacking. “So, um… Want to get that tea?”

 

“No thank you,” Anawaitshe says, and stands to pick up her bag, careful not to touch him. “I should be going.”

 

“I have people,” Matt blurts out.

 

“What?” Anawaitshe asks.

 

“I mean — I’m not lonely. I have people,” Matt says. “The tea is just tea.”

 

Anawaitshe fiddles with her bag for a long moment, then eventually says, “You will be here at 16:00 on Fifthday?”

 

“Yeah, I will be,” Matt says.

 

“Thank you,” Anawaitshe says quietly.

 

“Okay,” Matt says, and tries a smile. “See you then.”

 

The city’s caught in the breath between rainstorms when Matt finally hobbles out of the library to wait for the silent, gliding bus that will take him back to his building in The Baths, to the apartment with strong walls and enough food and a keypad lock on the door. The sky is already starting to bleed into sunset pinks and purples — something about the atmosphere on this planet that skips the orange entirely, colors the sky like the edges of a healing bruise. 

 

He’s lived in some places with beautiful sunsets and sunrises: Arizona, Chimsan, Xuuk… The labor camp at Geyzam Gal had been on a planet with absolutely spectacular ones, the kind that his mom would wake him up at 4AM to drive out to the middle of the desert to see, but there’s only so many things you can save in a place that works the flesh off your bones, and when he was in the labor camp he never looked up at the sky. Even when he fell, too exhausted to move, he fell facedown in the mud. He couldn’t see the sunsets, because then he would remember, and forgetting was the only way to survive. 

 

When he was a teenager, he got panic attacks sometimes before big exams. The therapist his mom brought him to said to _practice mindfulness_. She meant listen to tapes and meditate, but anyone who wants to get  really good at mindfulness should try being starved and raped and slowly worked to death in a labor camp — it’s great practice for living in the moment! Never anything past the next bite, the next drink of water, the next night of broken sleep, the next swing of the pickaxe. No room in his life for Arizona deserts at 4AM. 

 

It wasn’t until he was liberated from the camp that he looked up at the sunset sky, and he almost started crying, because he was seeing it as a free man, as a _person_ , not a nameless thing with an ID number. He got his codename and his weapons and his place in the resistance network and his orders passed down from people he’d never meet, #39285D turned codename Mordechai, and he held onto that sunset through the next decade of blood and black mud and righteousness and waited for those sunset tears to finally actually come. He was free; why couldn’t he cry? His jokes came back, his laughter, his smiles, his muscle mass and bone density — why not tears? 

 

He didn’t cry when his friends died. He didn’t cry when his legs were blown off. He didn’t even cry when he and Pidge sat shiva for their dad: almost a whole week of him and Pidge stuck alone together in his sad goat cottage eating the meals Hunk packed for them, no shiva visits from anyone because Matt was too paranoid to do this on the Castle or to let the rest of Team Voltron descend on his new hiding place. Pidge spent six days weeping as Matt sat silent and dry-eyed, trying to hide the liquor on his breath, and they never even got to the seventh day, because Matt got so smashed on the last night of mourning that Pidge just gave up and left, screaming at him with tears in their eyes about his selfishness — and Pidge was totally right, because the only time Matt was able to cry since Geyzam Gal was on that same sad grey moon years later, sobbing in Shiro’s arms as he cried for _himself_.

 

Now he lives in Quuduzh, city of ten thousand refugees and vast purple-pink sunsets, where tears only come to lubricate his eyeballs in the dry season salt winds. The bus pulls up to the stop and the blob of people at the bus stop slowly shuffle forward, their multicolored umbrellas bobbing above them until Matt can’t even see the sky, only the crush of people around him, and his heart starts pounding and his lips and tongue go numb and he’s got his umbrella in one hand and his cane in the other and if anyone in the crowd did anything to him he wouldn’t be able to defend himself, wouldn’t be able to do anything, the crowd pressing in around him, hard barracks-wood under his body, inescapable pressure, can’t do anything and surrounded by people who’ll watch and listen and silently not do anything to help because they just don’t _care_ —

 

He doesn’t run. He doesn’t break free of the crowd. He just lets them gently surge towards the bus doors and push him up the stairs and he takes the hard seat someone offers him after they see his cane and he sits limp and unresisting and goes away, and when he comes back, the bus is empty and the sky out the windows is dark and the bus driver is in front of him, saying _Hey, hey, are you alright, this is the last stop,_ and Matt’s not all the way there yet so he just blinks at her until he can find his tongue to tell her, _I need to go back, I missed my stop_ , and she says _Which stop_ and he says _Moundalley Street_ and then he sits for twenty minutes until the bus fills back up with passengers and she turns around and does the return route and tells him _Moundalley Street, sweetheart,_ and he gets off. He gets to his apartment two hours later than he planned to and finds ten chat messages from [ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] asking why he wasn’t online for tonight’s PB-C pemme game, and when he wakes up the next morning, he’s hungover as hell and laying in the gutter two blocks away from his building with a small squadron of the Grandkid Army peering down at him, one of them holding a broom.

 

“Is he dead?” someone yells from somewhere he can’t see.

 

“Sometimes I wish I was,” Matt mumbles.

 

“No!” one of the Grandkid Army recruits yell back at whatever adult instructed them to go poke the possibly dead man with a broom.

 

“Get away then!” said adult shouts, and the Grandkid Army scampers back to the safety of the nearest awning as the sky lets out an ominous trickle of rain. There’s a smushed dead bird floating in the gutter water about a foot away from Matt’s face. He stares at it. It stares back. Eventually, he sits up and drags himself to the nearest curbside tree, which he uses to pull himself up out of the ditch, and then leans against the tree and waits for the universe to stop spinning, his body dripping with gutter funk and dried urine chafing his inner thighs, because he apparently pissed himself last night during his revels. After a while, he hears the splash of running feet, and he looks up to see Shashis with two umbrellas.

 

“This one’s for you,” Shashis informs him, handing him the pink umbrella, and wrinkles xir nose at Matt’s smell. “But don’t keep it because it’s mine.”

 

“Thanks,” Matt says, surprised, gingerly letting go of the tree.

 

“Asmi broke my last one,” Shashis says, scowling. “I liked it. It had sparkly stars on it.”

 

“She breaks a lot of your stuff, doesn’t she,” Matt says, trying to unclench his back.

 

“It was an accident,” Shashis says unconvincingly.

 

“I’m guessing that’s not true,” Matt says.

 

“That’s what mama said,” Shashis says.

 

“Maybe it’s time to talk to your gamma,” Matt suggests.

 

“They’ll yell,” Shashis says gloomily.

 

“That’s rough, buddy,” Matt says gently. “But it’s probably still time to talk to your gamma.”

 

“That’s a cool bird,” Shashis says, ignoring him to instead point at the smushed gutter bird.

 

“If you come back for it — with gloves! — I’ll help you dissect it,” Matt offers, instead of nearly doing something terrible like volunteering to jump into the Sarlacc pit of interfamilial politics and maybe get yelled at himself, and fortunately, Shashis perks up at the idea of playing with something gross. “But, uh, after I throw up. You might want to turn away now—!” and he does manage to avoid vomiting on a seven-year-old’s shoes, which totally counts as a win.

 

*

 

* * *

FROM: holtm@quu/univ.galax

TO: [contacts bundle: “Level 1 Class A”, “Level 1 Class B”, “Level 2 Class A”, “Level 2 Class B”, “Level 3 Class”]

 

SUBJECT: I have office hours

 

Class! Reminder that I have drop-in office hours if you have questions about the homework, labs, lectures, or anything class-related — Secondday and Fifthday, 16:00-18:00. I don’t have an office so you can find me in East Building Library reading room #9, or #11 if they chase me out of 9.

 

Live long and prosper!

 

_Associate Professor Holt, Astrophysics_

 

 

*

 

 

**the white knight:** (19:08) How are you doing, so far?

**the white knight:** (19:08) With

**the white knight:** (19:21) You know.

**me, an intellectual:** (19:21) u can say it!!!!!

**the white knight:** (19:21) Squiggly Time.

**the white knight:** (19:21) I’m sorry, but it’s a ridiculous name.

**me, an intellectual:** (19:22) come on takashi im taking ownership of my trauma

**me, an intellectual:** (19:22) its bn p good actually

**me, an intellectual:** (19:23) chill

**me, an intellectual:** (19:23) just normal shit, no ST antics

**me, an intellectual:** (19:24) mb this year ill get a pass

 

 

*

 

 

He forgets to come to the first office hours period he promised Anawaitshe. Of course he does. But he remembers to come to the second one, and she tells him that she didn’t mind that he left her waiting alone in the library for an entire hour, and Matt just pretends not to hear the lie.

 

 

*

 

 

**me, an intellectual:** (4:02) [img]

**me, an intellectual:** (4:02) BEHOLD

**r u pidging me:** (4:03) that’s just a bigger lump under the same sheet as last time

**me, an intellectual:** (4:03) ye cuz theres more awesome under there now thn bfore but u could still steal my ideas gotta keep em safe

**r u pidging me:** (4:03) i don’t need your ideas, i have mine and they’re better

**me, an intellectual:** (4:03) i bet lizard doesnt even hav facial recognition

**r u pidging me:** (4:04) my own brother saying such things about me

**r u pidging me:** (4:04) i’m hurt

**me, an intellectual:** (4:04) hi hurt im matt

**r u pidging me:** (4:05) next you’ll be implying it doesn’t have emotive AI

**me, an intellectual:** (4:05) i bet it doesnt even hav proximity sensors

**r u pidging me:** (4:06) i bet yours is just a pile of cans held together with string

**me, an intellectual:** (4:06) fine then come see its awesomeness urself and cower bfore me

**r u pidging me:** (4:07) it’s ready?

**me, an intellectual:** (4:07) almost

**me, an intellectual:** (4:07) gimme 1 wk n a deadline

**r u pidging me:** (4:08) okay, 1 week

**me, an intellectual:** (4:09) come next thirdday eve i hav professor stuff all day secondday

**me, an intellectual:** (4:09) every secondday day im hustlin

**me, an intellectual:** (4:10) jk not anymore i hav a desk job now

**r u pidging me:** (4:11) i’ll be there thirdday eve

**me, an intellectual:** (4:11) 19:00

**r u pidging me:** (4:11) ok

**r u pidging me:** (4:11) don’t be drunk when i get there

**me, an intellectual:** (4:12) eagle scouts honor

**me, an intellectual:** (4:12) see u then

**r u pidging me:** (4:13) :)

**me, an intellectual:** (4:13) o hey do u hav any ideas on how 2 stop rumor mill frm sayin ur sleepin w ur students

**me, an intellectual:** (4:13) my spy training didnt cover that

**r u pidging me:** (4:13) ???????!!!

**me, an intellectual:** (4:14) its a long story

**r u pidging me:** (4:14) uh, i have time for THAT

**me, an intellectual:** (4:14) WELL…

 

 

*

 

 

The day of the Mechanimal Competition dawns cloudy and ominous, with a vague yellow-green cast to the light that makes the entire city feel eerie and unreal, and Matt has to dose himself a little more than usual to handle the bus ride home from morning classes. After six months of taking the same bus to and from work every weekday, he recognizes most of the other regular riders, but everyone looks strange when there’s the promise of lightning in the air.

 

He thinks about skipping that evening’s bizit, but Meas and Pesh promised a small group, just them and Matt and Jung and Jung’s giant frying pan full of pepper-fried reed worms and whatever vegetables Holt feels like bringing, hint hint HINT, and Matt could really do with some protein that isn’t eggs or beans. 

 

Back on Earth, pepper-fried reed worms wouldn’t have been something he would have thought he’d ever look at with relish rather than queasiness, but starvation curb-stomped most of his cultural food taboos and Quabi dedication to eating all the way up and down the food chain really does make for some three-Michelin-star meals, especially when they’re battered and fried.

 

Jung’s got the radio going when Matt clatters through the eye-searingly bright orange-and-green vestibule of his apartment building and up the stairs that surround its covered central courtyard. Matt wasn’t sold on the panopticon design of Quuduzh apartment buildings when he moved here and he still isn’t now, especially since his neighbors tend to view the walkways as public spaces perfect for chairs and children’s toys and other fun things for Matt to trip over, not to mention the neighbors themselves, studded across the walkways like landmines of polite conversation, and he has to stop and say hi to no less than three (3) neighbors just on his way from the front door to his apartment door, including Rreee, who’s got two new hatchlings that by neighborhood law Matt’s contractually required to admire, it’s probably in his lease and everything.

 

“They’re very… robust,” Matt tries, watching one hatchling spiritedly if toothlessly gnaw at his sleeping brother’s tail.

 

“They’re sure keeping me busy. Already scuttling,” Rreee says fondly, separating them to tuck the sleeping hatchling into her pouch. “But you know how that is.”

 

“Sure do,” Matt says, wondering if he’ll ever be able to convince any of these people that Shiro and Allura are FWBs and not family. Probably not. “Uh, the beans are calling me, so… have fun?” Is that what happens when you have kids?

 

Rreee nods, distracted by the hatchling now gumming on _her_ tail, and Matt creaks off mentally congratulating himself for behaving like a normal person and not a Slitheen in a skin suit, only to turn the corner and stumble across Piah’s spindly legs as she stretches out in her battered sling chair.

 

“Holt!” Piah says as she catches him. Her headscarf is very sparkly today, the stiff fabric wrapped up in some intricate knot. “How’s Elvis? Did the headache balm work? And what happened to my printer?”

 

Great.

 

By the time he’s dumped his stuff in his apartment, grabbed the plastic bucket of peppers and onions and melons and a bag of peas to be shelled, and resolutely avoided the cage elevator to painfully clank back down the stairs with the bag and bucket plus the plus-sized flask he promises himself he’ll stop drinking from just as soon as his back stops hurting, he’s said hello and made Small Talk with five (5!!!!) neighbors and he is so, SO ready for worms and roleplay adventures on the high seas. Thankfully, it looks like Meas and Pesh were actually telling the truth for once, and it’s just them, Jung, a really loud radio tuned to Jung’s favorite galactic news station, and Shashis playing some kind of handheld datapad game by xirself in the corner of the courtyard. 

 

"How's your man?" Meas asks as Matt hands the bucket over to Jung and collapses into the empty chair next to her.

 

_" —fourteenth day of riots in the capital city of Ibonin —"_

 

"Angry at me because I taught Alli the word 'shitworm'," Matt reports, pouring himself a big cup of cream tea from the battered tea-table set up next to the pemme table.

 

_ "The prime minister has declared the province under martial law until order is restored —" _

 

"Why? It's a damn useful word," Pesh says.

 

"I know!" Matt says, pulling up his pemme character sheet on his datapad. "Shiro just doesn't appreciate having a diverse vocabulary."

 

"Shame on him," Meas says, shaking her head. "Depriving the child."

 

_ "—are calling up reserve troops as unrest continues in more and more provinces on the primary continent—" _

 

"Oh, hey, that reminds me. Look what I got at the Aviary!" Matt says, rummaging around in his pocket — nope, that's coins, that's lint, that's a leaf, that's his switchblade, that's his signal scrambler — until he pulls out the gift he guiltily bought himself at the Aviary before everything went to shit: three jewel-bright 12-sided dice, each one gold-stamped with a different mix of numbers and runes. "New dice set!"

 

_ "—denounces the actions of the rioters as Preetapzi actors being used by the opposition party in a cynical grab for power —" _

 

"What's wrong with my dice?" Pesh demands.

 

"Nothing. But look — songbird, carrion bird, bird of prey," Matt says, pointing to each new dice in turn. "It's a bird-themed set, so the trigger runes are stuff about travel, speed, wind, warfare, death, entertainment... You know, birds!"

 

_ "—crisis actors; however, independent sources report a mass migration of Preet fleeing up into the At'Ap mountain range before the snow seals the passes, hoping to escape the conflict—" _

 

"Hmm," Meas says, thumbing through her battered rulebook to the good fifty pages devoted to every possible trigger rune that a particular die could put into the game. "Haven't played with these in a while. Haven't played with that particular wind one at all."

 

_ "Quote: We are not Preetapzi, one woman explains —" _

 

"Nothing wrong with my dice," Pesh grumbles.

 

_ "— but the army thinks all Preet are Preetapzi, or sympathizers, or maybe they just do not care —" _

 

"Alright, Holt, swap 'em out," Meas says.

 

"See, you just rolled a thunderstorm on the horizon, that's cool, right?" Matt says. "What's your response?"

 

"Head the other way, like any sensible person would," Meas says. "11. Full speed ahead three tiles."

 

Matt squints at the board. Did Meas rearrange the tiles again between rounds? That's her favorite way to cheat. It's hard to tell — the board isn't swimming, exactly, he hasn't RX'd himself for enough for that ( _and he won't, because he promised Pidge, he promised —_ ), but it's definitely fuzzier than it could be. Maybe he needs a better prescription.

 

_ "—prohibit interplanetary aid on the grounds that the claims of a sentientarian crisis in the making are, in the words of Prime Minister Shi Ribomon, ridiculous fabrications created and spread by Emperor Lotor to destabilize Shon Mir and create another Mnenmus Massacre —" _

 

"Okay, Matt says, "I'm rolling to... to..."

 

_ "We will not give in to these transparent tactics of a cruel enemy, Ribomon says. As we know, it was the political unrest between different factions in the Mnenmite System —" _

 

Ignore the radio, ignore the radio...

 

_ "—that allowed Emperor Lotor to launch a devastating surprise attack on the system —" _

 

"Trim the sails," Jung shouts, way louder than he needs to, and Matt jumps a little.

 

"Jung, if you're going to play, come play," Pesh fires back.

 

"Trim the sails, exactly what I was going to say," Matt says. "Because I've been on a sailboat before. Definitely!"  


 

"Pesh doesn't know shit about boats either," Meas comments.

 

"You lying sack, I build miniatures for the QuuFest every year," Pesh snaps, flipping through Meas's crinkling rulebook for the trillbird that Matt just rolled. "8 and some southerly wind, you can flip the tiles."

 

"You'll be wanting to provision soon," Jung comments.

 

_ "—combatant death toll in the high 40,000s and most civilian casualty estimates around 200,000, with some even as high as 500,000 —" _

 

"Jung, just come play a round," Pesh orders him. "And turn that radio down, can't hear myself think."

 

"Where're you playing?" Jung asks, shaking the pan to cover the battered-up worms more thoroughly in oil and completely ignoring her about the radio.

 

"Spicewind Islands," Pesh says.

 

"See, me, I prefer desert campaigns," Jung tells Matt as Matt gazes longingly into the pan and tries not to look too pathetically like a baby bird waiting to be fed pepper-fried worms. "The Eight Lost Temples, that's a good one."

 

"Spicewind Islands is good, they got maritime options," Pesh says. "My gamma came from desert, and let me tell you, there's nothing in desert but thorns and sand up your ass."

 

"Maritime options, feh," Jung says, tossing the chopped peppers and onions into the pan. "Boring, is what you mean. I like a numbers game, but not hours of nothing but rolling dice for wind speed and heartfruit exports."

 

"Well, in the last hour we went from being Navy to turning pirate for economic justice, so I wouldn't call it boring," Matt says, cursing as one of the beans he's trying to shell sproings out of said shell and hits Meas in the shin. "Auntie Pesh, can you roll me..." He fuzzily casts around for something reasonably strategic. "A climb? Up to the lookout nest?"

 

"2 on your songbird dice," Pesh says. "Fall and break your... mm, how about an arm this time?"

 

"Are you sure your secret objective isn't to get me into a full-body cast?" Matt asks suspiciously.

 

Meas clucks in disappointment. "There's better ways t'do that than a fall."

 

"Well, that's worrying," Matt says, taking another long swig of boozy cream tea. He promised Pidge sobriety, but a little more won't hurt. Besides, he's using mixers! That's _responsibility._ "Can you roll me some time with the doctor?"  


 

_ "—for, quote, a solution to the Preet problem—" _

"Jung, quit poking those worms and come be the doctor," Pesh commands.

 

"They'll burn," Jung argues. "A whole bag of reed worms fresh out of the shoots and you want me to burn them to set Holt's arm? 33b! Have him do it himself!"

 

"33b?" Pesh asks. "For a pound?! Did they come wrapped in 6b bills?"

 

"It's the Teardrop," Meas comments, tipping a little booze into her own tea. "Upriver ribbon reeds didn't grow any good this year because of all the shit in the water there, and the only reed worms worth eating is upriver."

 

"Could've kept the worms for myself, you know," Jung says grumpily. "Should be grateful I'm even bringing 'em out at all."

 

"I'm really grateful," Matt assures him.

 

_ "—the statement, Shirogane urged Shon Min leaders to not give up on peaceful negotiations with Preetapzi leaders—" _

 

"Jung, just turn the damn radio off," Pesh orders. "Holt's twitching so hard he just hit me with a bean."

 

"33b," Jung reminds her.

 

"Oh, you can listen later, there's nothing else on the radio these days and it's all the same nonsense," Meas grouches. "Shashi, go turn the radio off."

 

Shashis scurries off to do her bidding. Matt mouths a silent _thank you_ to xir.

 

_ "—in other galactic news, a rash of homicides has swept through Port Ero, likely connected to —" _

 

“They should just clean that place out,” Pesh grumps. “All the Teardrop’s shit washing down into the city, it’s not right.”

 

“Or the city could just build sewers there,” Matt says. “Just a thought.”

 

“Ha,” Pesh says. “Like those people’d even know how to use ‘em.”

 

“I’ve got students from there who’re studying _astrophysics_ ,” Matt says irritably. “I think they can figure out composting toilets.”

 

“Didn’t say all of ‘em were like that,” Pesh says sourly. “Just most of ‘em.”

 

“Besides, most of them work outside the Teardrop anyway,” Matt points out, taking another angry slurp from his teacup. “They know how the other half flushes their toilets. Or other four-fifths. Whatever.”

 

“Worms up,” Meas says loudly.

 

“Whole of East City livin’ scared of those people,” Pesh says as Meas creakily rises to dish out the food. “Damn shame. Wasn’t like that when I was your age.”

 

“When you were my age, the whole galaxy wasn’t in the middle of a refugee crisis,” Matt says, finishing the rest of his boozy milk tea and immediately pouring himself another, downing that too even though it’s way too hot to gulp.

 

“You like ‘em so much, you go live there,” Pesh snaps. “You’d get shot in a week.”

 

“I’ve already gotten shot. Wanna see the holes?” Matt asks, pulling the collar of his shirt to show her the massive blaster scar on his shoulder. “There’s one. Got one on my thigh, too, and my ribs, that one almost killed me, and another one on my bu—”

 

“I know, Holt, I saw that one when you was pissing on the wall outside and your pants fell down,” Pesh says.

 

“I didn’t do that,” Matt argues.

 

“Yes, you did,” Jung says, settling into his own cloth sling chair. “More’n once.”

 

“Shashi, come eat!” Meas calls to Shashis.

 

“Don’t wanna,” Shashis mutters, tapping away at the datapad. It’s making little blaster noises, pew-pew-pew!, and Matt twitches and pours himself more tea.

 

“You’re playing,” Pesh announces to Jung, pulling a character card out of her giant binder and shoving it at him. “Xoa Lo, that’s a good character. Good stats. Roll.”

 

Jung rolls his eyes and then rolls the dice, a too-enthusiastic toss that has them skittering off the table onto the tiled floor next to Matt’s chair. Matt grabs for them, but his body isn’t quite going where he intends it to, and he knocks his head on the table instead.

 

“Ouch,” Pesh comments mildly.

 

“M’I bleeding?” Matt asks.

 

“No,” Jung says, and then leans down to pick up the dice himself and immediately cracks heads with Matt, who’s going in for round 2 of Mission: Pick Up Small Dodehedrons. Docehedrons? Dodeherons? Too many syllables. Jung groans.

 

“There’s too many syllables on the dice,” Matt informs them all.

 

“Pesh, I’m rolling to keep Holt’s Ibix confined to cabin until his arm heals,” Meas says.

 

“Mm, good idea,” Pesh says, her eagle eyes trained on the dice so Meas can’t thump the table to get a re-roll. “2 and a blue hawk. Ibix is loose and wanderin’ the deck of the _Oppenheimer_ and the _Revenge_ can’t find ‘em in the dark.” Meas curses. “Holt, your roll.”

 

The pew-pew-pews of Shashis’s datapad game are nice and distant now. What time is Pidge coming? Probably soon, but the worry about that feels nice and distant too. “Ibix is going to…” He stares at the board. The _Revenge_ and the _Oppenheimer_ have to meet up, that’s the only way they’ll survive a battle with the Navy, so… so… “Order a flare sent up for the _Revenge_ ,” he decides, and casts.

 

“No!” Jung cries, but the dice have already hit the table, and Pesh scowls at them. Meas groans.

 

“A 9 and a bloodbeak,” Pesh announces sourly. “You send up the flare, announcin’ your position. The Navy sees it. Flip the tiles between you’n’them and get ready for battle.”

 

“Oops,” Matt realizes.

 

“Jung, roll to take over the _Oppenheimer_ ,” Pesh orders him.

 

“I’ll decide for myself,” Jung grumbles. “Alright, rolling to take over the _Oppenheimer_.”

 

“10 and another trillbird, bless,” Pesh says. “Easy mutiny,” but then she looks up and stares at something behind Matt, and Matt twists around way too fast, wrenching his lower back, to find an Uan priestess in her blood-red veil and robes silently peering over his shoulder at the board.

 

“If you’ve got a flat-bottom shallow water ship you can run them onto the reef,” Pidge observes.

 

“Why’re you here?” Matt asks.

 

“Because I took a bus,” Pidge says. “And then your neighbor let me in. Piah’s very glad you’re looking to Uanani’i for help with your drinking. She specifically wants you to know that she’s not anti-convert.”

 

“I meant why are you here _now_ ,” Matt asks.

 

“You said 19:00. It’s 19:20,” Pidge says.

 

“Oh. I didn’t forget,” Matt explains. “I set an alarm on my datapad,” and then forgot to bring down his datapad to the bizit, because his ability to actually do anything well ever is 13% at most.

 

“I believe you,” Pidge says, inscrutable behind their gauzy veil. Matt tries to get up from the table — always an interesting process when you can’t feel anything past mid-thigh — and stumbles against it, bumping it hard and knocking over some pieces on the board.

 

“Holt!” Meas barks.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Matt mutters, trying to set the pieces mostly where they were before before Pesh waves his hands away.

 

“Go get ‘spiritually advised’, Holt, we’ll handle the Navy,” Pesh says.

 

“Don’t throw me overboard,” Matt instructs them.

 

“Mm,” Pesh says, which isn’t a no. Matt salutes them and limps off towards the stairs, shaking off Pidge’s steadying hand on his elbow even though his lower back would really like some steadying right now, or maybe just an epidural nerve block.

 

“You said you weren’t going to be drunk when I came,” Pidge says in an undertone.

 

“I’m not drunk, I’m mildly relaxed and also a double above-the-knee amputee,” Matt says. “I bump into things even when I’m totally sober.”

 

“How would even know that?” Pidge mutters, but Matt graciously decides to ignore it.

 

“Is that Lizard?” Matt asks, nodding to the lunchbox-sized case Pidge is carrying. “It’s small.”

 

“I went for speed and maneuverability,” Pidge says, then cautiously: “I bet Birbhorse is slow as fuck.”

 

“Birbhorse is _sturdy_ ,” Matt says proudly. “Unlike an actual horse, those are ridiculous.”

 

“Birbhorse is probably just a pile of tubers under a sheet,” Pidge says.

 

“Lizard is probably just a taxidermied puffball on wheels,” Matt fires back.

 

“Gross,” Pidge says, reaching out to help steady him as he stumbles again and then apparently thinks better of it, which is very wise of them. “Taxidermy is creepy.”

 

“Taxidermy is only creepy when it’s done badly,” Matt says, hauling himself upstairs with generous help from the handrail. “It’s a valuable educational resource when it’s done well.”

 

“Is that why you wanted to taxidermy Bae Bae?” Pidge fires back, and then immediately winces, but the great thing about algae spirits is that they blunt the bloody edges of his grief, so Matt can just shake his head benevolently.

 

“I just wanted to have him for longer,” Matt admits. “I wasn’t ready for him to be dead.”

 

“I wanted to have him for longer too,” Pidge says. “I wasn’t ready either. I wanted—” They pause at the top of the stairs. “I wanted to win the Mechanimal Competition. So I made one kick-ass Lizard cat.”

 

“Hi, real lizard Cat,” Matt tells Cat as he opens his front door and flicks on the light. Cat stares at Pidge upside-down from her perch on the ceiling.

 

“Inferior,” Pidge sniffs, but they’re smiling, so Matt doesn’t have to duel them for Cat’s honor, which is good because Pidge would definitely win. Pidge toes off their shoes at the door — Shiro has clearly trained them well, because they never used to do that at home — and carries their metal lunchbox over to the kitchen table, where Birbhorse is waiting, hidden under a folded sheet. Matt just finished painting it this morning, and the whole apartment still kind of reeks of the miscellaneous house paint that he got from Jung, but he’s pretty sure it’s dry enough to perform the dance he choreographed for it (complete with sound effects!).

 

Pidge clicks open the lunchbox, and Matt hands them a big square of fabric that used to be Shiro’s shirt before Cat decided that the shirt really needed a giant hole over the left nipple.

 

“What’s this for?” Pidge asks.

 

“The unveiling,” Matt says, gesturing to the sheet-covered Birbhorse.

 

“Right, of course, what was I thinking?” Pidge says, grinning and bouncing a little on their toes. “Okay, turn around!” 

 

Matt turns around, only stumbling a little. There’s the clank of the metal lunchbox lid and some rustling, and then Pidge announces, “You can turn back around now.” They’ve set Lizard up on the opposite side of the table, two cloth-covered lumps ready to face off in an epic engineering death match.

 

“Are you ready?” Matt asks.

 

“To grind you into the dirt with my engineering prowess?” Pidge says. “Absolutely.”

 

“Who taught you everything you know? Uh, this guy!” Matt says, pointing at himself. “You’re not grinding me anywhere.”

 

“Gross,” Pidge says.

 

“Ready your mechanical, Pigeon,” Matt says grandly, getting into position behind the Birbhorse lump.

 

“Ready, Stork,” Pidge says, grinning as they get into position behind the Lizard lump. “Lizard, voice activate code 9043. Calm mode.” The Lizard lump begins to move gently under the fabric.

 

“One,” Matt announces, opening up the Birbhorse program on his datapad.

 

“Two,” Pidge says, hands ready at the edge of their sheet.

 

“Three!” Matt and Pidge shout together, and simultaneously pull the sheets off Lizard and Birbhorse, and —

 

Well.

 

If Matt didn’t already know that Lizard was a robot, he would swear it was a real cat — soft white fur, a twitching tail, bright green eyes barely recognizable as cameras, every detail photorealistic. It eyes him with dainty disdain as it delicately washes a paw, its movements sleek and natural. Pidge even got the pink toe-beans right. Even with the Castle to fabricate parts, it must have taken hundreds of hours of work. It’s beautiful.

 

Matt’s been seeing Birbhorse in his dreams for weeks now, but apparently he’d never actually seen it for real, because he thought it was something to be proud of, and next to Lizard, it’s not beautiful. It’s not beautiful at all. The proportions are all wrong — huge head and belly, squat mismatched legs, the crooked left wing bigger than the right; everything bisected by thick, ugly seam lines of screwed-together plates because his hands were too shaky for a welding torch. It’s painted white with a purple mane, but the paint’s already starting to flake off in patches, the lines of its hooves wobbly and uneven. Even by itself, it’s pathetic.

 

That’s not even the worst part, though. The worst part is watching Pidge’s face when the sheet comes off and they see just how badly Matt failed.

 

“Matt —” Pidge starts.

 

“Wow. That’s great, Pidge,” Matt says thickly. “Lizard is really great. You definitely won first place.”

 

“Does it do anything?” Pidge asks hopefully. “You said it had cool programming —”

 

Matt silently types a few command codes into his datapad. The tinny sound of his own voice making a whinnying sound comes out of Birbhorse’s speakers; Birbhorse does a stiff, slow dance and then goes back to being still. Independently of any voice command, Lizard gets up and pads over to Birbhorse, nudging the unmoving robot with a small pink nose. Pidge gave Lizard translucent whiskers, Matt notices. He taps another command code in, and Birbhorse flaps its wings three times.

 

“That’s cool,” Pidge tries, even though they both know it’s not. “Does it fly?”

 

“No,” Matt says dully. “I, uh. I couldn’t figure out how to make it work.”

 

“Oh,” Pidge says softly.

 

“You won, Pidge,” Matt says brokenly. “You really, really won. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better opponent.”

 

“You were a fine —” Pidge starts.

 

“Pidge,” Matt interrupts softly. “Come on.”

 

Pidge looks at him, then at Birbhorse. “There’s always next time?”

 

“I won’t be a better opponent next time either,” Matt says. “You should have your next Mechanimal Competition with Hunk.”

 

“I want to have it with you,” Pidge says.

 

“Get used to winning,” Matt says.

 

“Birbhorse is cool,” Pidge insists. “I like it.”

 

“I worked really hard on it,” Matt says.

 

He doesn’t want to look at his stupid pathetic robot anymore. He sweeps Birbhorse off the table, balling it up in the sheet and tossing the whole thing towards his bed, but it doesn’t quite make it there, landing on the floor with a jangling crunch. Pidge winces.

 

“You didn’t have to wreck it,” Pidge says.

 

“I didn’t build it for anything other than the Mechanimal Competition,” Matt says briskly as he goes to pull the iced tea out of the cooler. “That’s over now.”

 

“It could be a cool toy,” Pidge says. “I would have loved it as a kid.”

 

“You could have bought it at Toys’R’Us,” Matt says. “For $15.99.”

 

“Maybe $29.99,” Pidge allows.

 

“You should keep Lizard, though,” Matt says.

 

“Yeah, I was planning to. It’s actually a medical device too,” Pidge says awkwardly. “I thought it could have therapeutic uses for Maze?”

 

“Like a therapy animal?” Matt asks.

 

“Yeah, but it does other stuff too,” Pidge says. “Come here, sit down, I’ll show you?”

 

Matt sets the glass of tea down on the table and sits down next to Pidge, and Pidge lifts Lizard into his lap, where it immediately curls up against his belly.

 

“Lizard, purr mode,” Pidge instructs it, and the robot cat immediately begins to purr, a deep, soothing vibration that Matt can just feel through the thin fabric of his shirt.

 

“It vibrates at 25 and 50 Hz,” Pidge says. “Optimal —”

 

“For soft tissue repair,” Matt says.

 

Pidge nods excitedly. “And bone growth. And Lizard is hypoallergenic — the fur actually comes off, it’s machine-washable. It takes vitals too — respiration rate, its nose is a thermometer, and it has a pulse ox built into its left paw — and it has a medication reminder feature. I was going to add a heating pad function, but I ran out of time. Maze wants a pet but can’t take care of one, so I thought Lizard could be good birthday present for her.”

 

“That’s awesome, Pidge,” Matt says sadly. “She’ll love it. It’s a great gift.”

 

“Maybe I could make you one?” Pidge asks carefully. “Your birthday’s coming up too.”

 

“It is?” Matt asks.

 

“Um, yeah,” Pidge says. “Three weeks from now. Mine too. In a month?”

 

“Well, of course I remember _that_ ,” Matt says, even though he definitely didn’t.

 

“So, do you want a robot cat to help with soft tissue repair?” Pidge asks.

 

“I think the real Cat would get jealous,” Matt says. From atop the kitchen shelves, Cat is eyeing this intruder that has taken up residence on her human’s lap, spinal spikes raised in irritation. “Actually, maybe you’d better take Lizard back. I’d hate for it to get mauled.”

 

Pidge nods, and reclaims Lizard, settling it on their lap, where it continues to purr. Matt really wants a drink. He won’t while Pidge is here, that’s just asking to be yelled at, but the soft watercolor haze of earlier is starting to slip away, and he wants so badly to not be able to care about anything right now.

 

“So… um… What research are you doing these days?” Pidge asks, after a long minute of them both sitting in silence. “I hear the labs at Quuduzh Uni are incredible.”

 

“I’m, uh… not,” Matt says. “Doing research.”

 

“Oh,” Pidge says.

 

“It’s not a requirement for my position,” Matt explains. “I don’t have the time.”

 

“You’re working on other things?” Pidge asks hopefully.

 

“I play pemme,” Matt offers, although that’s only three nights a week at most. “It’s this local tabletop game. _The_ local tabletop game, actually, everyone plays it.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” Pidge says.

 

“And I do grading and lesson planning and stuff,” Matt says. “Well. Some of it. Eena does a lot of it.”

 

“Your TA, right?” Pidge asks.

 

“Yeah, she’s great,” Matt says with feeling. “My life is color-coded _and_ alphabetized now, and she set up all these email filters —”

 

“It wasn’t color-coded before?” Pidge interrupts.

 

“I… gave up on it for a while,” Matt says. “But I do it now!”

 

“Oh,” Pidge says, carefully expressionless. “Okay. Good.”

 

“And I…” Matt casts around pathetically for anything else he could give them. He has sex with Shiro once or twice a month, that’s eventful. He has vidcom sex with Allura maybe once a week. He eats. He takes baths sometimes. He drinks. He practices all the ways he can make Shiro scream and whimper and beg for it to stop. What the fuck else does he do?

 

“I worked on Birbhorse a lot,” he says instead, and immediately knows it’s the wrong thing to say when Pidge looks down at Lizard, not quite fast enough to hide the distress in their face. Pidge really came here thinking that they would have their genius brother back, Matt realizes. “But, um. I guess I didn’t work on it enough.”

 

“You tried,” Pidge says. “That’s… that’s a lot,” except it’s nothing, nothing at all, because the Matt that Pidge wants so badly doesn’t exist anymore, they want the man who’s a  scientist and a spy and a rebel fighter and a leader and a genius and their brother and their father’s son and he’s not any of those things anymore, they want a _hero_ , and he was never one of those at all.

 

“I’m serious, you should compete with Hunk,” Matt says. “I bet he’d come up with something really cool.”

 

“I don’t want to compete with Hunk,” Pidge says again. “I want to compete with you. Why don’t we do round two? We can learn from our mistakes and improve with Lizard and Birbhorse 2.0 —” 

 

“What mistakes?” Matt asks, disbelieving. “Pidge, Lizard 1.0 is _awesome_.”

 

“It’s got some bugs,” Pidge says stubbornly. “The AI—”

 

“It has AI?” Matt interrupts.

 

“Not a very smart one,” Pidge says. “You can make it go blue screen by asking it, _What is the nature of a good kitty?_ ”

 

“Soft, warm, happy, sleepy,” Matt says automatically.

 

“Purr purr purr,” he and Pidge both chorus, and Pidge grins hopefully.

 

“You’ve got three out of five down,” Matt says. “Unless it’s an emotive AI?”

 

“Not yet,” Pidge says.

 

“Don’t give it emotions,” Matt says. “That’s just mean.”

 

“Maze would want to make it happy,” Pidge says.

 

“Just make it act happy,” Matt says. “She’ll never notice the difference.”

 

“I could show you how to code the emotive AI for Birbhorse,” Pidge says, completely ignoring his sage wisdom. “Or we could work on it together.”

 

“Yeah, I think you’re better off working on it solo,” Matt says. “You’d spend half your time fixing my mistakes.”

 

“Birbhorse has good bones,” Pidge says. “You’re just out of practice. And Lizard is way too heavy for Maze right now, I bet you’d have some good ideas about weight-saving materials —”

 

“You’re so smart, Pidge,” Matt says. “You don’t want to be stuck with me.”

 

“I do!” Pidge says. “And I wouldn’t be stuck, I’d be a collaborator. Don’t you want to build something that isn’t— um…”

 

“Shitty?” Matt supplies.

 

“I was going to say a bomb,” Pidge says quietly.

 

“I also repair my neighbors’ small appliances,” Matt says.

 

“That’s great!” Pidge says, too brightly.

 

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between toasters and AI,” Matt says. “I’m tapped out. Work with Hunk.”

 

“I don’t _want_ to work with Hunk,” Pidge says petulantly.

 

“Then you’ll end up dragging me behind you,” Matt says, “and that’ll suck for you, and we’ll end up not talking again. And if we make it a competition 2.0, you might as well get the trophy now.”

 

“How do you know that?” Pidge demands. “You haven’t tried.”

 

“Pidge, I _tried_. This is me trying. This is what it looks like now,” Matt says.

 

“I don’t believe that,” Pidge says.

 

“It’s the truth, and the data points bear out my hypothesis,” Matt says.

 

“Which is what?” Pidge asks irritably.

 

“That you should work with Hunk,” Matt says.

 

“Stop saying that!” Pidge says.

 

“It’s true,” Matt says.

 

“Well, maybe if you had been sober, you could have built a better mechanimal,” Pidge says. “Did you factor that into your data?”

 

Matt snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, actually, I did. Do you know how many times I’ve tried to quit?”

 

“Once?” Pidge asks bitterly.

 

“Once that you saw,” Matt says. “Twenty six times that you didn’t.”

 

“Matt —” Pidge says helplessly.

 

“Twenty six times over two decades. That averages out to… what, every six months? There were a few years where it was once every three months,” Matt says bitterly. “And it never worked.”

 

He looks down at the sweating glass of iced tea in front of him so that he doesn’t have to look at his sibling. 

 

“It’s not that I don’t try, Pigeon,” Matt whispers. “I tried so hard. But I can’t do it. The data agrees.”

 

“Fuck the data,” Pidge says vehemently, and Matt looks up in shock. 

 

“Fuck the data?!” Matt says disbelievingly.

 

“If you _wanted_ it enough —” Pidge says hotly.

 

“Pidge, I want it! I really, really want it!” Matt exclaims. “But it doesn’t matter. Wanting something to stop won’t make it stop!”

 

“That’s the only way it stops!” Pidge says. “You don’t stop wanting it, fine, but you find something that you want _more_!” They swallow hard. “And I guess that’s not me, but just find something.”

 

“Pidge, if anything would be enough, it’d be you,” Matt says.

 

“But I’m not,” Pidge says. “So maybe this could be that for you. A project to work on. An incentive.”

 

“You mean like Birbhorse 1.0?” Matt mutters.

 

Pidge ignores him. “And I promise, you wouldn’t have to come onto the Castle. You wouldn’t even have to leave Quuduzh. We could do it all remotely. I can ship you any materials that you need on your end.”

 

_Can you ship me a new brain?_ Matt thinks.

 

“So what about it? Mechanimal Collaboration? Holt & Holt?” Pidge asks hopefully.

 

“Yeah, Pidge,” Matt says tiredly, mostly just to get them to go away. “Sure.”

 

“Seriously, Lizard could be a _lot_ better, there’s the weight problem, and an overheating issue,” Pidge says, “and you’ve always been better at the mechanical side of things, and — oh, there’s some code that I want you to take a look at! Lizard needs to wirelessly interface with the Castle so it can transmit Maze’s vitals and fall alerts — she’s not using her crutches as often as she should — but I don’t want this thing to be hackable at all, so it’s got to have some pretty strong— are you okay?”

 

“Uh huh,” Matt says.

 

“Are you paying attention to me?” Pidge asks.

 

“Yep,” Matt says.

 

“No you’re not,” Pidge says.

 

“It’s just… It’s getting late,” Matt tries.

 

“It’s not that late,” Pidge says.

 

“It is for me,” Matt lies. “I go to bed early these days.”

 

“Do you actually go to bed early?” Pidge asks.

 

“Do you really want me to tell you?” Matt asks quietly.

 

Pidge looks at him for a moment, then looks away. “No.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Matt says.

 

“We can talk more remotely,” Pidge says. “I want your thoughts on entanglement ciphers.”

 

“I’m pretty busy,” Matt says.

 

“You can find time,” Pidge says.

 

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Okay.”

 

“Lizard, sleep mode,” Pidge says. Lizard goes limp, and Pidge picks it up from their lap and carefully puts it back into the metal lunchbox, standing to go.

 

“I’m sorry I don’t have a trophy or anything,” Matt says, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

 

“That’s okay,” Pidge says softly. “I didn’t want one. I didn’t even want to win.”

 

He doesn’t escort them to the bus stop. He doesn’t even escort them downstairs. He tells them that his back is hurting and Pidge knows the way anyway so it’s fine, it’s fine, and he shuts the door and counts to a hundred hippopotamus to make sure they’re not coming back for a second last word, and then he heaves a huge sigh of relief and limps over to the thing he’s been thinking about ever since it started to ebb from his bloodstream.

 

Normally he likes his booze the same way he likes Shiro — frequently, and laid out on every possible flat surface — but he’d hidden his little flock of booze bottles away in a cabinet in deference to Pidge’s visit. He’s a connoisseur, thanks v. much, so he at least pretends to read the labels on the bottles before he arbitrarily chooses one. He can afford to waste a little time, anyway, because even just the _idea_ of a few drinks is a blessed relief, like cold water on a burn, like being awake for four days straight and finally being allowed to sleep; like giving in, because he’s a pathetic human being who builds pathetic robots and cares more about his BAC than his family, who wants and wants and wants and it never seems to matter, he’s always just pushed along by something bigger and stronger than him, the bottles or the Galra or the Ilinn or the ugly violence squirming through the rot in his soul, and he doesn’t want any of it but he can’t, he couldn’t, he can’t —

 

But he could. He shakes his head to knock the stupid out, but the thought clings on. Pidge was right. He wants to drink, he wants it so badly, fine, but he could stop if he found something that he wanted _more_ , and he’s got the bottle in one hand and the cap off but it turns out that maybe, right now, the one thing he wants more than a drink is to _not_ want a drink ever again, and he’s so fucking sick of it all: sick of being the farthest thing from inconspicuous, sick of waking up in random places and never knowing what happened to him when he was out, sick of the shakes and sweating and pounding headaches and the stink he can never seem to scrub out of his skin,  sick of Pidge and Gabar and Eena and Allura and Shiro and his students and neighbors and coworkers and everyone who looks at him with disgust in their eyes, and that last thought nearly makes him swerve back into the bottle of algae spirits in his hand before he grabs his mental steering wheel and banks hard right back towards furious determination, and before his hippocampus has time to catch up, he hurls the bottle of algae spirits so hard that his back _shrieks_ —

 

The bottle explodes against the wall like a grenade, glass shards ricocheting through his kitchen. Matt stares at the dark liquid stain it left for a long moment, breathing in the harsh alcohol-stench, and then he picks up the next bottle he sees, and the next, and the next, and the next, lobbing them against the wall one after the other like headshots in an execution firing line, rage that tastes like grief burning at the back of his throat, and afterwards he crawls into bed and watches the last dregs of his sanity drip down the stonework and sobs and dry heaves and sobs some more until Cat almost falls off the wall right onto the broken glass sprayed across his floor and he spends the rest of the night cleaning up, shaking so badly he can barely hold the broom.

 

 

*

 

 

**me, an intellectual:** (5:43) hey eena im out sick so do ur L1 n L2 magic u da best thnx 

 

**me, an intellectual:** (6:22) actually ignore every word i said 

**me, an intellectual:** (6:22) im goin 2 class today so see u there

 

**me, an intellectual:** (6:35) …what am i doin in L1?????

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (6:36) time/frequency domain transforms for signal recognition, Professor.

**me, an intellectual:** (6:36) udabomb.com thank uuuuu

 

 

*

 

 

(3 days.

72 hours. 

4,320 minutes. 

259,200 seconds.

 

Matt’s tried this before ( _he’s tried this so many times and it never works, it never—_ ), and he knows how this goes. 3 days until the worst of the withdrawal symptoms pass and he’ll feel like a person again instead of a patchwork nightmare of pain, until he can think about something other than the 10 steps from his bed to the door and the 12 steps from his door to the stairs and the 36 steps down the stairs to the building’s front door and the 205 steps from his building’s front door to the store on the corner that sells the stuff that would douse the wildfire roaring through his head right now, that would stop the clock and the pain and the memories lying in wait ready to torture him like those soldiers did Hadit, little Hadi who was the baby of his rebel squad, barely fifteen with her brother’s charred doll that she carried around at the bottom of her pack, Hadi that they found two days later facedown in the grass with her ears missing and her nose missing and her eyeball hanging from the socket and her severed genitals tossed five feet away, Hadi whose name he told those soldiers when his squad caught up to them and he stunned them and tied them up and set aside his staff so he could take up his knife and do every single thing to them that they’d done to her —

 

259,080 seconds. 

259,079. 259,078. 259,077. 259,076…)

 

 

*

 

 

**DAY 1** , to put it gently, SUCKS. Matt could probably stay home to sweat through all his clothes in peace — what the university administration doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and considering all the quote-sick-unquote days he’s taken in the six months since he started the job one more probably won’t matter — but spending all day alone with his thoughts and the 253 steps to the chemical that would get them to shut up is probably a Bad Decision, so he messages Eena and downs half a bottle of calcium carbonate and drags himself the 189 steps down to the bus stop instead.

 

Being one of the six humans in the galaxy definitely works in his favor, because as far as anyone at the university knows, his species really are greasy-haired perpetual perspiration machines that vibrate like a tuning fork whenever they have to pick up anything heavier than a single sheet of paper. Even still, Matt knows from a quick glance in the sex mirror that underneath his grudging Quuduzh tan he’s about as ghastly white as a Bon Jovi concert, and rolling up to class half an hour late with his prescription sunglasses and a travel cup of the disgusting tea that Gabar assured him will kill any nausea dead probably doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence in his students about his general state of wellbeing, not that he probably inspires much of anything in them other than a firm commitment to Just Say No.

 

“Are you alright, Professor?” Banin calls out from the back row as Matt clanks his way through the door.

 

“No. I’m molting,” Matt whispers. “It’s a very delicate process. Please don’t make any more super loud noises today,” and then spends the rest of the class sort of explaining whatever he’s supposed to be explaining but mostly just reminding himself that it’s unprofessional to spend the entire 90 minutes lying on the floor moaning.

 

Put a blaster to his head and he still couldn’t tell you how he makes it through the rest of the day. The hours pass and he feels every single second of them as keenly as a piece of grit behind a contact lens, until all he can think about is how badly he needs to dig it out, stop it touching him, stop _touching_ him!, but that’s not how time works, or at least that’s not how time works sober, and he spends most of the day and all of the restless night sweating and pacing as long as his back will allow, trying to tire himself out of the wanting.

 

There’s knocking on his door at one point, Meas’s distinctive tap-thump-thump-rap and even more distinctive, “19:00, Holt, open up! Don’t pretend you’re not home, we know you are!” but he ignores it in favor of more pacing and sweating, and after a few more minutes of thumping and threatening and swearing and kicking his door, he hears footsteps echoing down the hallway, and then there’s nothing but silence. And heartburn.

 

 

*

 

 

(172,800. 172,799. 172,798. 172,797. 172,796. 172,795. 172,794. 172,793. 172,792. 172,791. 172,790. 172,789. 172,788. 172,787. 172,786. 172,785. 172,784. 172,783. 172,782. 172,781. 172,780. 172,779 _breath on the back of his neck—_

 

????

 

171,579??? 

 

170,973???

 

170,973. 170,972. 170,971. 170,970. 170,969. 170,968. 170,967. 170,966. 170,965. 170,964. 170,963. 170,962. 170,961. 170,960. 170,959…) 

 

 

*

 

 

**DAY 2** , like most sequels, is just a worse version of Day 1. Sweating? Check. Nausea? Check. Shakes? Check. Students staring at him confusedly as he squints at the lesson plan he clearly wrote when he was balls-to-the-wall blotto? Check. Pain every time he twists or bends or moves or breathes because he apparently threw his stupid back out with his big sobriety epiphany? Check. Persistent intrusive thoughts that he can’t drown until they stop kicking because the only liquids left in his body are sweat and bile and urine and blood, and he won’t, he won’t, but he wants to, 253 steps and he digs his fingernails into his own forearms just to feel something other than the wanting, the hunger that turns his entire body into a mouth and his memories into teeth and his mind into the scream building up behind them —

 

Check check fucking check.

 

 

*

 

 

(86,401. 86,400. 86,399. 86,398. 86,397. 86,396. 86,395. 86,394. 86,393. 86,392. 86,391. 86,390…)

 

 

*

 

 

By the sheer laws of biology, **DAY 3** should be better just because his body is too tired to be feeling like shit as vigorously as it has been. The exhaustion grays everything out until he can barely speak in compound sentences, let alone have any pesky _feelings_ , almost as good a numbing agent as the alcohol. Maybe he should look into just not sleeping at all. It’d be cheaper.

 

It doesn’t take long for Day 3 to fall flat on its stupid face, though, because his screenwriters decided to get gimmicky and Day 3’s surprise twist revs up in his periaqueductal gray and then his amygdala hops in the driver’s seat and his heart goes from beating to pounding and his O2 goes up and his CO2 goes down and it’s cute how he can recite the specific physiological components of a panic attack but that doesn’t change the fact that this room doesn’t look right and these people in front of him don’t look right either, they barely look like people, this barely looks like a room, he sees colors and corners and angles and light but it might as well be a fucking Picasso because none of it adds up into something real, he’s not even sure if it is real, he’s not even sure if _he’s_ real, this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tripped and fallen into psychosis, and oh look, there’s the custodial closet and the custodial closet floor and here’s him on it, who the fuck is teaching his class right now while he’s curled up gasping into a mop, he really hopes it’s Eena and not Banin.

 

By now anyone who’s stuck with his class longer than a few weeks knows that this shit is totally normal for him, and they try their best to pretend like it’s normal for them, too. Sometimes he’s grateful for that; sometimes it makes him want to shake them until their idealism falls out, because this! Is! Not! Fucking! _Normal!_ He’s not fucking normal! And yes, he does mean that as a double entendre!

 

Most of the time he just doesn’t think about it. That’s going to be harder now that he’s not pickling his brain cells anymore, but he’ll figure something out. He has to. The only other alternative is 253 steps away from his apartment — and 19 steps away from his desk, apparently, because he opens his faculty locker up after class for _another_ fucking pair of prosthetic socks and liners, you’d think that in the battle of Airtight Liners vs. Withdrawal Sweats the liners would win but apparently not!!!, to find a handle of algae alcohol in there too, so — Places Drunk Matt Stashed Alcohol Like a Large Boozy Squirrel Who Ain’t Afraid of No Administrative Censure: 5 and counting. 

 

Gotta catch ‘em all! And then immediately throw them out. Yes, Matt, that includes this one. Peel away your fingers clenched so tight around it that glass and bone almost meet through your skin. Don’t even throw it this time; just let it drop. Watch it plummet towards the ground, flashing in the noonday light like something beautiful, watch it shatter on the pavement and don’t be tempted to jump after it. Oh, shit, someone’s going to have to clean that up and it’s probably going to be the Xaraz caretaker staring right at the third-story window some idiot just dropped a glass bottle out of. Make your way somewhere, doesn’t matter if it’s downtown, just walk away from here fast. Actually, you know what, walk faster.

 

 

*

 

 

(20. 19. 18. 17. 16. 15. 14. 13. 12. 11. 10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1 —

 

Well, fuck.

 

-1?)

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CWs: explicit alcoholism; panic attacks; flashbacks; hypervigilance; references to past rape/s; graphic references to torture; graphic violence; graphic physical harm towards children; referenced death of a child; graphic injury; a xenophobic hate crime.
> 
> Yikes this is a long chapter.
> 
> As always, I am an unholy creature who subsists solely on coffee, fried egg sandwiches, and Ao3 comments, and every comment is treasured and immediately added to my hoard.


	12. Tize (Dry Season)

**me, an intellectual:** (1:28) i have NEWS

**made of** ☆  **stuff:** ****(1:35) And that is?

**me, an intellectual:** (1:39) 14 days sober!!!!

**me, an intellectual:** (1:39) \o/

**made of** ☆ **stuff:** (1:40) Matt, that’s wonderful!

 **made of** ☆  **stuff:** ****(1:40) Do you need help? What can we do?

**me, an intellectual:** (1:41) nah I GOT THIS

**me, an intellectual:** (1:41) ur still comin next weeknd rite???

**made of** ☆  **stuff:** ****(1:42) Of course!

 **made of** ☆  **stuff:** ****(1:42) I’m sure I can find a way to come sooner if that would help you keep it up.

**me, an intellectual:** (1:43) 1 gr8 thing abt no more booze? i wont have ANY trouble keeping it up now ;P

****made of** ☆  **stuff:** ** (1:43) I’m looking forward to that ;)

**me, an intellectual:** (1:43) but more srsly dont u have princess stuff

**made of** ☆  **stuff:** ****(1:44) I also have underlings.

**me, an intellectual:** (1:44) nah im good 2 wait c u then :)))))))))))

**me, an intellectual:** (1:44) but uh no baking this time ppl r still pissed @ u (me) 4 setting off th fire alarm @ 3:00

****made of** ☆  **stuff:** ** (1:45) Hunk assures me I’m improving!

**me, an intellectual:** (1:45) fine but no fire alarms

**made of** ☆  **stuff:** (1:45) You have my word.

**me, an intellectual:** (1:46) is shiro still comin this 8thday so we can get our kink on??? :D

****made of** ☆  **stuff:** ** (1:46) Unless something drastically changes on Shon Mir, yes.

**made of** ☆  **stuff:** (1:47) He’s not happy about it, but I believe he’s finally reached the point where he realizes that there’s little else we can do without Shon Min attempts at diplomacy or the cooperation of the Alliance. We have the support of the Mnenmus now, thanks to Secretary Mesiba, but that’s not enough.

**me, an intellectual:** (1:47) ill do my best to distract him ;)

****made of** ☆  **stuff:** ** (1:47) You are very distracting.

**me, an intellectual:** (1:48) im choosing 2 take that as a compliment

**made of** ☆  **stuff:** (1:48) It was. ;)

**me, an intellectual:** (1:48) …u got any free time now? its been WAY too long since ur last visit and i fixed my vidcom camera wink wink

**made of** ☆  **stuff:** (1:49) Well, then. Give me ten dobash.

 

 

*

 

“There,” Matt tells Cat, grinning as he steps back and admires the giant piece of paper he’s affixed to his apartment wall. Cat takes a scuttling leap into his arms and he automatically starts scritching her itchy loose scales as she grumbles in contentment.

 

Fourteen days isn’t his longest period of sobriety, but it’s been so long since he tried to do anything other than pickle in his own self-pity that he’s forgotten what being sober even feels like — the good, the bad, and the ugly.

 

 **The good:** He’s sober!  ･ﾟ☆ヾ(ﾟ∇ﾟ)ﾉ☆ﾟ･ It’s so, so nice to feel proud of himself again for something that isn’t the disaster that was Birbhorse. He didn’t think that he could ever get better at dealing with his shit, but he can, he knows he can because he’s doing it, and now any time he finds himself wanting the sweet, sweet embrace of alcohol he can just count the tally marks on the wall, over and over and over again, as warm and comforting as a woodstove in his heart.

 

**The bad:** He really wants a fucking drink. But it’ll pass. All the shiny videos full of happy, smiling sober people in recovery that Pidge has sent him over the years say it’ll pass, or at least it’ll get easier, because he’s found the one thing he wants more than he wants the alcohol: to never ever again feel what he felt when the sheet came off Birbhorse and he saw the heartbreak on Pidge’s face.

 

**The ugly:** The Back Pain Strikes Back! (Heh.) He thought he had it bad during Bem, but it turns out that Bem was barely in the same zip code as ‘bad’, much less on the same street, and now that he’s not regularly consuming a central nervous system depressant his central nervous system is making itself VERY known.

 

He actually meant to put the giant tally board up days ago, but this is the first time in almost a week that he’s felt up to standing, or having vidcom sex, or doing anything at all other than eating, using the bathroom, checking his legs for sores, cleaning the important parts of himself with biodegradable wipes, and laying in bed alternatively trying to teach astrophysics via vidcom and rewatching Earth-pirated _My Hero Academia_ so that his brain has something to dwell on other than  **OW** ****. His garden is only surviving through Shashis’s help, and Matt is only surviving through the Hive’s door-to-door food delivery service and the Grandkid Army hauling said groceries up the stairs in exchange for pastry, although unfortunately they’ve recently discovered collective bargaining.

 

“Your food is _heavy_ ,” Tishis complains, heaving one of the fabric grocery bags up onto his kitchen table with an ominous crack. Matt really hopes she didn’t break any of the eight jars of mumum nut paste he ordered. Maybe he should have ordered ten. “Really heavy. SUPER heavy.”

 

“Builds strong muscles. Good for growing kids!” Matt says brightly.

 

“We want _two_ lumpis. Each,” Tishis announces, all four hands on her hips. Beside her, cousins-whose-names-Matt-doesn’t-remember both nod.

 

“Uh, no,” Matt says.

 

“Then we won’t bring you food and you’ll starve and die,” Tishis says mercilessly.

 

“Thanks for reminding me,” Matt says tightly. He really should have ordered ten jars. And more instant noodles, 30 packs isn’t enough. Did he remember the sack of dried beans? Maybe he should make them go back for more stuff. You can never have too many nonperishables. Or fried lumps of sweet dough, apparently.

 

“Two lumpis,” Tishis insists.

 

“One and a half and you don’t tell your gammas that I got a Bakery delivery,” Matt says.

 

The Grandkid Army holds a whispered conference among themselves, then Tishis nods decisively. “One and a half. Big ones.”

 

“Fine. But I cut them,” Matt says, but Tishis hovers over his shoulder to make sure that he isn’t actually giving them 1 ⅓ , and then Meas and Pesh come stumping through his door two hours later anyway, and the only reason he doesn’t knife the unexpected intruders is that he’s back in bed with no prostheses on.

 

“Why are you in my apartment?” Matt demands, heart pounding.

 

“You didn’t come up to the rooftop for pemme, so we came all the way down here to bring the game to you,” Meas says. “You’re welcome.”

 

“ _How_ are you in my apartment?” Matt revises.

 

“Shashi gave us the key code,” Pesh says.

 

“Do not _ever_ do that again,” Matt says. “Seriously. I mean it. I’m not a good person to startle.”

 

“What happened to you?” Pesh demands.

 

“A lot of shit you don’t want to know,” Matt says grimly.

 

“I meant why are you in bed,” Pesh says. “Another sore?”

 

“Back pain,” Matt says, uncomfortably aware of his extremely reduced mobility, and he knows that Meas and Pesh won’t hurt him, have no reason to hurt him, but, but, but —

 

“You get older, everything starts going,” Meas says sympathetically, stepping aside so Tishis and grandkid-unknown (Pashem? Paseam?) can march in with the folding pemme table, the folding tea-table, cushions, and the giant tea-tray. “We brought the tea. Tishi, get out the dumplings, put ‘em on the green plate,” and then Matt has to grit his teeth and watch someone steal his food right out of the cooler, and it’s only that he’s so fucking bored of being in pain that he doesn’t try to shout the aunties right out of his apartment, not that they’d probably listen to him anyway.

 

Meas scowls at the giant Shiro practice pillow still bungee-corded to one of his chairs. “What’s this about?”

 

“I throw things at it when I’m angry,” Matt says.

 

“Hear that, Pesh? Should get you one of these,” Meas says. She glares at the chair-hogging pillow one last time and then steals Pesh’s chair just before Pesh sits down in it.

 

“How long have you known each other?” Matt asks, curious, as he watches them slap ineffectually at each other.

 

“Too damn long,” Pesh says, grumpily installing herself in the last chair.

 

“Since we was sharp young things with more lovers’n we knew what to do with,” Meas says wistfully.

 

“So… a really long time then,” Matt says.

 

“Haven’t seen you stumblin’ around lately,” Pesh comments to Matt as she starts setting up the game board and the Grandkid Army scurry out the door. “Shashi says xie ain’t seen you drinking either. Shouldn’t drink alone up here, you have too much and no one’ll know. Happened to that woman upstairs — mm, Meas you remember her —”

 

“Tivel,” Meas says.

 

“Tivel,” Pesh says. “Happened to her. Bad bizi. And then her man didn’t serve drinks at the funeral. Not even wine!”

 

Meas shakes her head. “Rude, that.”

 

“I’m not doing that anymore,” Matt says proudly. “Drinking. At all. Sober two weeks and counting!”

 

“How’s that been?” Meas asks.

 

“ _Great_ ,” Matt says happily. “It’s awesome. Except that I’ve been going through painkillers like you wouldn’t believe.”

 

“I’d believe. My knees couldn’t take stairs at all until I started going down to Waterway for biostim,” Pesh says. “You could probably get a nurse up here if you can’t get down there, they got portables. Enough to get you on your feet, at least. Metaphorically speakin’.”

 

“I’m good,” Matt says, trying not to move any more muscles than he has to. “I’m fine. I’m planning on going in to class tomorrow. Or, uh, maybe the day after.”

 

“Bless,” Meas says. “Oh, and we invited Jung, he’ll be down soon. Havin’ Xoa Lo was helpful last round, and you know we don’t like playing more than one character at a time.”

 

“The more the merrier,” Matt says, even though that’s WRONG, but he’s turning over a new leaf and everything, so he stuffs his stupid twitchiness into the back of his mental junk drawer and prepares himself to be a gracious host (although next time he’s hiding the damn dumplings). And it’s not like he doesn’t like Jung — as much as he likes anyone, at least — and Jung has no reason to hurt him so Jung won’t. That’s how it works, except when it doesn’t, the Galra had no real reason to hurt him and Dad and Shiro, they weren’t a threat to them, Haggar could have found another Champion and the Empire sure could have found two more people to do slave labor for them, or maybe Dad never went to a camp, maybe they just culled him right away, Matt doesn’t know, he’ll probably never know, but these people aren’t Galra, so Matt’s safe with them. Probably. Maybe. In a world that made any kind of sense, he would be. That’s close enough. It has to be close enough.

 

He actually does make it in to class tomorrow, which considering the amount of potholes his bus hits should count as an achievement to go on the tally board right up there with the “days sober”. It’s always a surprise, how good it feels to see his students again — Bi’o and Anawaitshe and Sast and Banin and Ees and all the rest of L2, crowded together into a computer room for an overcrowded multi-class lab session since Professor Slom keeps being a dick and booking the rooms before Eena can.

 

“Okay, so we’re going to run simulations smashing black holes together,” he announces, rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how awesome it’s going to be.”

 

“No you don’t!” Banin says, and Bi’o laughs.

 

“Okey dokey, smokey, let’s get cracking!” Matt says, the bank of lab computers flickering to life. The students start talking together in a hubbub of excited voices as twenty pairs of black holes collide, and even as Matt flinches back from the noise — are they louder than usual today? — he remembers why he’s not hiding in a quiet R&D lab somewhere instead of spending 60% of his time doing mind-numbingly boring grading. It’s for moments like this, when he can watch forty people get to lift up the circus tent of the universe and peer with wonder at the show. 

 

He was like them, a long time ago, and he’s not that person anymore and he can’t get that Matt back no matter how sober he is, but now that his head is finally above water, maybe he can get back a little of that wonder. Maybe he finally can be someone that he’s proud to be.

 

And then the entire bank of computers screeches as one as an error message starts flashing on every screen, and the hubbub of excited voices turns into a mob of confused students convinced that they’ve broken something, which they probably have because apparently the simulators don’t like black holes, who knew, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, what does he do, think, why can’t he _think_ …!

 

“Eena!” Matt yells over the blaring computers and panicked students. “Eena, help…!”

 

 

*

 

 

“This took an entire varga to read,” Dabraha from IT informs him three vargas later, brandishing zir datapad with the error report on it at him.

 

“An entire varga? Nice,” Matt says. “Personal best!”

 

“And you, what, turned it on and off again?” Dabraha asks, poking around the simulator lab and scowling at the flickering monitors.

 

Matt jerks his head towards Eena. “My teaching assistant did.”

 

“You can go away now while I fix your mess,” Dabraha grumps, picking zir stylus out of their knotted hair. “Do NOT run this simulation again.”

 

Eena waits until they’re out in the hallway away from Dabraha to turn to Matt. “We’re running that simulation again, right?”

 

“Oh, Pinky,” Matt says, delighted. “How well you know me.”

 

 

*

 

 

*

 

 

 

“Are you alright?” Anawaitshe asks, staring down at him when she comes into the library reading room for his Fifthday office hours, the first hour of which have basically unofficially become the Anawaitshe Hour.

 

“Yep, peachy keen,” Matt says from where he’s laying flat on the floor, multiple cordless heating pads underneath him and switchblade discreetly at his side. “And excited to answer any astrophysics questions you have. But, uh, I’m not getting up. Alright — carry on!”

 

 

*

 

 

*

 

 

>CHAT THREAD: DUMP THAT BLOODY SHIT OF A MAN [♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] , [schemethedream], [fuckyoubusn91], [ptau_demi], [isnar11], [bluepalaBABe], [✿kiria✿pelli]

[fuckyoubusn91] okay we’re all temporarily uniting under the banner of GETTING REVVE TO KICK THAT MOTHERFUCKER OUT OF HIS LIFE

[isnar11] agreed

[bluepalaBABe] I see Pa’Tema named the chat thread

[ ✿ kiria ✿ pelli] schemey he showed up last night with 3 black eyes!!!!!!

[schemethedream] out of how many?

[isnar11] why does that matter?!

[schemethedream] assessing threat level

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] 3 out of 4.

[schemethedream] shit

[bluepalaBABe] Exactly

[ ✿ kiria ✿ pelli] i tried talking to him about it but he said that he fell

[fuckyoubusn91] and you don’t get black eyes from fucking falling

[isnar11] revve’s not great at lying

 

“Oh, great,” Matt mutters.

 

[ptau_demi] Anyone have any ideas?

[ptau_demi] I don’t think confronting him will work.

[ptau_demi] My sister’s wife was physically abusive too and all confronting her did was convince my sis that her wife was right — that we were all just jealous and out to get her.

[fuckyoubusn91] i vote hammer to the knees

[ptau_demi] Does anyone have any suggestions that WON’T land us in jail.

[bluepalaBABe] We’ve checked that he’s not wanted on any outstanding criminal charges right

[ ✿ kiria ✿ pelli] no, he’s a law-abiding citizen :(

[bluepalaBABe] Other than how he’s always BROKE as FUCK

[isnar11] does he have any outstanding gambling debts that an enforcer could hypothetically come collect on

[fuckyoubusn91] with a knee hammer

[isnar11] I know someone who does work for the seven shiners

[bluepalaBABe] Is it you?

[ptau_demi] Again, violence is not the answer here.

[isnar11] then what IS the answer?!

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Also, he doesn’t gamble. Or borrow money from anyone other than Revve.

[ ✿ kiria ✿ pelli] has anyone just tried *gently* talking to revve?? he’s really smart, he’s got to see that something’s wrong…

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I have talked to him SO many times. So has his mom and his brothers. Revve won’t listen. He loves him.

[bluepalaBABe]  Uanani’i tell me WHY

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Why does anyone love anyone?

[bluepalaBABe] Because they’re not AWFUL?

[fuckyoubusn91] no trust me you can love shitty people too

[ptau_demi] Gently talking to him hasn’t worked, confronting him is out, knee hammers are definitely out, he doesn’t have any trouble with the law…

[bluepalaBABe] How does he not have any trouble with the law????!

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Revve won’t say anything about him and he always talks his way out when other people call the police. And then it’s worse for Revve. I wish people would stop calling the police, it doesn’t help.

[ptau_demi] Any ideas for anything that would help?

[ ✿ kiria ✿ pelli] schemey????

 

Think, think, _think_ —

 

[schemethedream] sorry

[schemethedream] i cant think of anythin either

 

 

*

 

 

*

 

 

(Matt’s vaguely aware that something bad happened to someone around this time of year. A long, long time ago, some seriously bad shit happened to some nineteen-year-old, technically a man but really still a boy. The boy was very smart and thought that he believed in evidence-based conclusions, but when the bad shit happened, this terrified boy found that he couldn’t believe in that at all. He looked at the aliens, the guards and the prisoners and the thing that came for him every night in the dark, he felt the mud under his feet and the ore in his hands and the hard barracks-bunk under his body, he tasted the wobbly nutri-blocks on his tongue… All the evidence supported only one conclusion, and yet he still couldn’t believe. He drifted through those months in a distant haze, looking down at his own body doing all kinds of things, thinking: _this isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. We barely hoped for amoebas, we never thought there were other sentients out there — Fermi Paradox, the Great Filter, so this has to be a dream, a nightmare, this isn’t happening, it’s not, it’s not, and even if it is, Shiro’s coming to save me —_

 

But that boy wasn’t Matt, although they shared the same name. That boy died, or was lost, some point of divergence along the way, and one day, Matt woke up in his bedroll surrounded by the other fighters in his rebel cell and thought, _there’s nothing of him left in me, I’ve evolved, I’m a different species entirely,_ split off so far from that boy that no one would ever guess that they shared the same family tree. 

 

And it was good. It was better, to be severed like that, able to get to the bloody business of justice without being crushed under the weight of someone else’s memories. And this year as Squiggly Time rolls around and everything hasn’t come crashing down on him even though he’s sober now, Matt thinks with a wild joy: _finally. Finally, I’m free._ )

 

 

*

 

 

**me, an intellectual:** (15:09) ok so i still dont hav any ideas on ur weight problem but

**me, an intellectual:** (15:09) [img]

**me, an intellectual:** (15:09) check out what i found @ the lib here

**r u pidging me:** (15:12) HOW DID THAT EVEN GET PUBLISHED????????

**me, an intellectual:** (15:12) 0 peer review?????

**me, an intellectual:** (15:13) or sex bribes

**me, an intellectual:** (15:13) those usually work

**r u pidging me:** (15:14) a giant orgy with the entire review board

**me, an intellectual:** (15:15) stranger things

**r u pidging me:** (15:16) matt i’m having a crisis. this isn’t the galaxy i fought for

**me, an intellectual:** (15:16) 1 w/ orgies?????

**r u pidging me:** (15:17) no orgies are cool

**r u pidging me:** (15:17) a galaxy where THAT could get published

**me, an intellectual:** (15:19) lets make rigorous peer review shiro n alluras new crusade

**r u pidging me:** (15:19) btw shiro told me to tell you that he’s coming tomorrow

**me, an intellectual:** (15:20) sneaky of him

**r u pidging me:** (15:20) yeah he thought he was being clever by getting us to talk more

**me, an intellectual:** (15:21) little does he know

**r u pidging me:** (15:21) oh and he said he’s not bringing alric

**me, an intellectual:** (15:21) FIST PUMP OF TRIUMPH

**me, an intellectual:** (15:22) dont tell shiro i did that

**me, an intellectual:** (15:22) alrics gr8 but in small doses

**r u pidging me:** (15:23) no I get it

**r u pidging me:** (15:23) KIDS.

**r u pidging me:** (15:23) what even ARE they??

 

 

*

 

 

Matt’s supposed to be coming up with a kinky plan for tomorrow. He promised Shiro a plan, something to take his mind off the diplomatic nightmare of Shon Mir and the inevitable civil war and the equally inevitable epic Shiro GuiltFest that Matt and Allura can both feel simmering away on the back burner of Shiro’s mental stovetop. Allura even left the Kink Notebook in Matt’s custody for the express purpose of planning something to make Shiro feel good, but he’s been staring at the same blank Notebook page for twenty minutes and the only thing his idiot sandwich of a brain can come up with is

which is obviously not the high quality content that Shiro expects or deserves and frankly not the quality Matt wants to provide, either. Really, Shiro probably expects Matt to haul out the impact stuff this time — it’s been months since Shiro first brought it up and he’s probably getting impatient. But even though Matt’s aim is pretty great now and he’s learned how to do it so his shoulders don’t go AUGH after ten hits, he’s still not ready — Shiro doesn’t just want to be whacked a few times, he wants a _scene_ , and that requires a lot more than a crop and a practice pillow, it requires planning, probably some diagrams, and Matt just… hasn’t done it. He’s been too busy. Classes and pemme and Birbhorse took up a lot of time and drinking took up all the rest and then some. 

 

But now that he’s sober, he’s got too much spare time and not enough grading or _My Hero Academia_ rewatches to fill it, so it’s high time to get down to business and defeat whatever stupid brain block he’s got about getting sexual and emotional pleasure by violently hurting someone he cares about. His back isn’t going to be up to anything too strenuous tomorrow, so it won’t be The Scene, but he could at least be 50% a failure and disappointment instead of 100%, and therefore he should incorporate a little impact into tomorrow.

 

There. BOOM! Decided. Shiro’s going to be disappointed that it’s not The Scene, but at least this way Matt can tide him over while he works on planning The Scene, which he will absolutely now do. Shiro wants it, Shiro specifically asked for Matt to do it to him, so Matt needs to stand and deliver. Or maybe sit down and deliver. Or maybe just deliver while laying in bed with multiple heating pads beneath him and two separate fans blowing on him from either side so he doesn’t cook in the oven-hot dry season air like a pan of slowly roasting garlic potatoes. Yes. Let’s deliver that way.

 

 

*

 

 

**me, an intellectual:** (23:05) this is a request not an order

**me, an intellectual:** (23:05) pls shave ur balls

**me, an intellectual:** (23:06) also do u want noodle soup or curry 4 dinner afterwards

**the white knight:** (23:06) If you’re planning what I think you’re planning — request definitely accepted. Getting hair yanked out by the rope wasn’t fun.

**the white knight:** (23:07) And noodle soup, #19 please.

**the white knight:** (23:07) Do you want me to bring anything tomorrow?

**me, an intellectual:** (23:08) just urself

**me, an intellectual:** (23:08) oh also a sack of laundry detergent

**me, an intellectual:** (23:08) :)

 

 

*

 

 

*

 

 

Shiro shows up to Quuduzh with not one but _two_ sacks of laundry detergent, plus an extra two giant fabric grocery bags and a huge grin, like Matt had done something huge and important — defeating Lotor in single combat and ushering in a new era of peace in the galaxy, maybe — instead of just finally finding the will to do the basic level of shit he should have already done decades ago.

 

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Shiro says, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Or hug you. Or something. Anything.”

 

“I really want to kiss or hug or something or anything you too,” Matt says. Across the building vestibule at the wall of mailboxes, his neighbor Piah claps her hands together in delight. “Uh, do we want to get upstairs? Those look heavy.”

 

“They’re not heavy,” Shiro says.

 

“No, they look _really_ heavy,” Matt says, subtly flicking his eyes at Piah.

 

“Oh,” Shiro says. “Yes. Definitely. Wow. Really heavy.”

 

He swings all four bags into one hand like the show-off cyborg he is and reaches out to offer Matt his other hand. Matt transfers his cane to _his_ other hand and takes Shiro’s offer, intertwining their fingers, the closest to a kiss he can manage unless Shiro’s safely beneath him and Matt’s brain can forget that this is the person who attacked him with a sword. He can’t even stand right next to Shiro, because Shiro is Too Damn Tall; they have to have a minimum of eight inches between them, swinging their clasped hands like Jack and Jill carrying an invisible bucket of water. 

 

It’d probably be easier to be around Shiro if Matt had taller prostheses, but he falls on his face plenty even with short prostheses and a center of gravity four inches lower than it naturally would be, and he doesn’t feel like _maybe_ sometimes being able to hug his sex person if his brain is in a giving mood that day is worth _definitely_ breaking his nose. Again.

 

“I’m so proud of you, Matt,” Shiro says softly, loud enough for only Matt to hear.

 

“Not here,” Matt says. “Please.”

 

Shiro nods reluctantly and starts towards the stairs, but Matt steers them towards the elevators instead. Shiro raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “You’re taking the elevator now?” 

 

“It’s either that or have Jung rig up a pulley,” Matt says. “I can’t manage stairs right now. I can barely manage upright right now.”

 

“Is it your back?” Shiro asks. Matt nods. “How bad is it today?”

 

“Not _that_ bad,” Matt tries. Shiro looks unimpressed. “Okay, fine, it sucks, but I’m out of bed today. Lately that counts as not that bad.”

 

“Did you fall again?” Shiro asks, frowning.

 

“I think I pulled something when I smashed all the liquor bottles in my apartment,” Matt says, pressing the elevator UP button and resolving himself to a long wait. The elevators in this building move about as fast as he does. “And then I was bending over a bunch to sweep up the shards, so I probably made it worse.”

 

“Why did you do that?” Shiro asks, sounding alarmed.

 

“So Cat didn’t fall onto broken glass and I didn’t have an emergency vet bill,” Matt says.

 

“I mean why did you smash all the bottles,” Shiro says. “Why didn’t you just throw them out?”

 

“Feelings,” Matt says. “Lots and lots of feelings. It was very cathartic!”

 

“Have you thought about seeing a physical therapist for your back?” Shiro asks, sounding deceptively unconcerned. “Or a doctor?”

 

“So I can be prescribed addictive painkillers and/or get touched all over by a stranger with unknown motives? No thanks,” Matt says.

 

“I’m pretty sure that a physical therapist’s motives are to provide you with physical therapy,” Shiro says.

 

“Probably, but do you _know_ that?” Matt asks. “No. You don’t. Besides, it’ll pass. It always does.”

 

“You could try a healing pod,” Shiro suggests. “They’re not as good for cumulative damage, but it would still be better than nothing.”

 

“You mean the healing pods that only the Castle and really rich people have?” Matt asks.

 

“Well, you do have access to the Castle,” Shiro mutters.

 

“You have one day here, let’s not get into THAT,” Matt says, and points to the elevator that just beeped. “Let’s get into this instead.”

 

The elevator doors beep shut behind them. Matt braces himself for a lot of Proud Dad Mode Shiro in a small confined space, but Shiro just grins to himself and watches the numbers tick up to the fourth floor.

 

“You’re quiet,” Matt says.

 

“I thought you wouldn’t want me to make a big deal out of it,” Shiro says.

 

“You’re right,” Matt says.

 

“So I’ll only say this once —” Shiro continues.

 

“I don’t want pamphlets,” Matt warns, and Shiro turns to look him right in the eyes, his face full of so many soft and terrifying things.

 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Shiro says. “Matt, thank you so, so much.”

 

“Don’t thank me,” Matt says, uncomfortable. “I should have done it much sooner.”

 

“But you did it,” Shiro says. “Matt, you did it! We all knew you could if you just started believing in yourself, and we were right, see?” He squeezes Matt’s hand — gentle for Shiro, but tight, too tight. A twitch of unease flicks the back of Matt’s neck, and Matt has to resist the urge to pull his hand free. “We were right.”

 

“Haha yeah, I guess you were,” Matt says with a forced smile. “Anyway. Are you still still up for kink time today?”

 

“Definitely,” Shiro says.

 

“Do you want to know what I came up with?” Matt asks.

 

“No,” Shiro says, grinning. “Although I can guess from the instructions.”

 

“Maybe I told you that to throw you off the scent,” Matt teases. “Maybe my plan doesn’t involve your balls at all.”

 

“Even if it doesn’t, it’ll be good,” Shiro says. “I trust you.”

 

“Oh. Yeah,” Matt says. “Um. Any injuries I should know about? On a scale of one to ten, how terrible is your brain?”

 

“No, and just fine,” Shiro says, which knowing Shiro means _my shoulder hurts and I’m mildly suicidal if I ever let myself think it_ , but that’s a pretty good for Shiro so maybe Shiro really does think he’s fine. “How’s _your_ brain?”

 

“Sober,” Matt says. “So, you know, great!” and Shiro gets that smile again, like Matt hung all of the moons in the sky. The elevator doors beep open at the fourth floor, and he and Shiro awkwardly side-shuffle their way out of the small elevator, Shiro nearly taking Matt out at the metal knees with the overstuffed grocery bags before they manage to hobble their way to Matt’s door and into the apartment. Matt sits down, sighing with relief, while Shiro thunks all of the bags down on the kitchen table that for once isn’t covered in Matt’s students’ papers and screws and tools and some neighbor’s broken small appliance.

 

“I know you just said laundry detergent, but I thought you might be running low on some other stuff too,” Shiro says, pulling out packages of dried fruit, blocks of salted seaweed, freeze-dried fish, body wipes and insta-shampoo caps, reusable chemical hot and cold packs, a small tub of medicated muscle rub, none of which Matt wanted and all of which Matt probably needs.

 

“Any changes from the worksheet?” Matt asks as he watches Shiro continue to unpack. “Anything you really want to do, or don’t want to do, or… anything?”

 

“Not really,” Shiro says. The second grocery bag is entirely full of snack bars and self-cooking MREs from the Castle supply, complete with one-use biodegradable utensils. Is Matt really that predictable? “You?”

 

“Oh, you know, I’m good,” Matt says. “Totally DTK. Down to Kink,” he clarifies. “And DTF, FYI.”

 

“I get it, you like acronyms,” Shiro says dryly. “So I’ll put these away, and then we can start?”

 

“Actually, do you want to start now?” Matt asks impulsively — and this wasn’t part of today’s Plan, but neither was Shiro bringing groceries along with the laundry detergent.

 

Shiro looks at the groceries on the table, then at Matt, clearly wondering why he’s skipping their usual pre-scene cuddle time. “Uh… sure. It’s all nonperishable.”

 

“Good,” Matt says. He points down at the ground between his metal feet. “Close the blinds, then strip and kneel.”

 

Shiro does, his bare knees hitting the floor a few feet away from Matt and crawling the rest of the way. He sits back on his heels, and Matt takes a deep breath and pulls Shiro’s head back by the hair, deliberately painfully tangling his fingers in the strands. “Safe word set.”

 

“Green, yellow, red,” Shiro says, then belatedly adds, “and purple,” _no more._

 

“Safe symbols,” Matt says.

 

Shiro  knocks twice on the floor for _green_ , knocks once for _wait_ , snaps for _stop_ , and presses his palm flat against the floor for _no more._

 

“Good,” Matt says, falling into the ritual of it — or trying to, at least. He belatedly remembers that he needs to put Cat in her crate along with her rock warming in the oven. Did he even remember to put the rock in the oven this time? Actually, did he remember to lock the front door? “You are going to feel what I do to you.” The mantra, the magic words, the key to Shiro’s encryption. “No matter what I choose to do, how much or how little,  you will not ignore it.”  Someone should really check the door. “You will not get used to it.” Maybe he shouldn’t have skipped cuddle time. “You are going to take it, and feel it, and keep taking it, and keep feeling it, as long as I want you to, until I tell you to stop.” Why does the thought of Shiro holding him in bed make Matt want to itch out of his own skin? “Are you going to do this for me?”

 

“Yes,” Shiro murmurs.

 

“Good,” Matt says, then sits back in his chair. “Now go put away the stuff you brought me. Food in the upper kitchen cabinets, doesn’t matter where, toiletries in the box next to the bed. Take as much time as you need. When you’re done with that, the pile of dirty laundry next to the bed goes into the washer with the detergent you brought. That’s an order.”

 

There’s enough of Shiro that hasn’t sunk into subspace yet for Shiro to laugh at that, shuffling backwards before he gets back onto his feet and continues to do exactly what he was doing before — but there’s a new looseness to his body, a sureness to his movements, like Shiro’s found where he wants to be more than anywhere else in the world, a tiny cog blissfully toiling away in the precise place it needs to be to make the whole vast machine go. 

 

He looks content like this. Happy. Shiro almost never looks happy when he’s submitting for Matt. He looks wrecked and distressed and used and hurting, sure, but never _happy_ , and maybe Matt should just leave it there, maybe he could scrap the rest of his Plan and just plead his back and tell Shiro to clean his whole apartment, and Shiro would believe that, he’d do it and he’d love it — but that’s not what Matt wants, or it is, but it isn’t, Matt wants Shiro to love it but he also wants Shiro to beg for it to stop, he wants to hurt Shiro and keep hurting Shiro, again & again & again & again & again & again —

 

“Shiro, check in the oven. Is there a rock in there?” Matt asks.

 

Shiro dreamily peers into the oven. “Yes.”

 

“Wrap it in two towels and then put it into Cat’s crate, towards the back, and close the latch when she’s inside,” Matt says, which Shiro does, and Cat immediately scuttle-gallops to her crate and the spa experience within, ignoring Shiro as he traps her inside. “Does she have enough water?”

 

Shiro nods. 

 

“Good. Thank you, you’re being very helpful. You can go finish the laundry,” Matt tells him — naked submissive laundry being Shiro’s equivalent of a warm oven rock — and then Matt carefully stands up from the chair, wincing, so he can go over to his Sex Box for the tools he decided on today: condom, clothespins, clamps, the crop, a length of thin blue braided rope. 

 

It’s an awkward trip back to the kitchen table, the clamps and clothespins and rope clutched in one hand and the crop shoved up under his armpit so he has a hand free to catch himself in case he overbalances. Maybe next time he’ll make Shiro fetch the implements of his own tortu— The implements. Not even implements. The tools. He’ll make Shiro get the tools. Not as punishment ( _the rod or the whip, #39285D, and he stupidly chose the rod so they used the whip_ ), it’s not punishment because punishment is unwanted and Shiro wants this, Shiro specifically asked for Matt to do this to him. 

 

Except Shiro asked Matt to overwhelm him, so maybe he wouldn’t want to fetch the tools. Maybe he just wants to lay back and take it and not fight back because what’s the use, he won’t win and it’ll just make it worse next time, maybe he just wants to go away while Matt does cruel things to his body. That’s kind of what Shiro does anyway — he goes away to a good place, but he still goes away and leaves Matt by himself, #39285D naked and terrified and as the guard gets into position he wonders if he’ll survive this beating the way his friend Biya didn’t survive hers, this guard was always so enthusiastic about punishing prisoners, eyes shining and breath coming quicker, the tools must have felt so good in his hands, felt _right_ —

 

Matt looks down at the stuff he’s laid out on the kitchen table next to where Shiro is going to sit. Clothespins, clamps, the crop, the rope. He’s got a Plan, and it’s a good Plan, and it’s suddenly the last fucking thing he wants to do.

 

“Shiro, go lay down on the bed. Flat on your back,” Matt says instead, gathering up the rope and condom and leaving the rest of the tools on the table. After a moment of thought, he also grabs his datapad stylus and one each of the small chemical hot and cold packs that Shiro brought with the groceries.

 

Shiro pads over and lays down on the mattress on the floor, and watches Matt sit in the low chair next to the bed to take off his prostheses and then torturously lower himself down to the mattress too, wincing and gasping as his back clenches up halfway down. He really needs to get a real bedframe, but for that he needs to get a middle-of-the-night wheelchair and that costs _money_ and would mean rearranging his apartment to let it pass and that means moving furniture and going out in public to buy it, and it’s just so much, all the time, too many problems for any one to be worth solving, each with too many parts to be _able_ to be solved.

 

“Pull your leg up,” Matt tells Shiro, tapping his right leg, and Shiro does, and Matt awkwardly wiggle-drags himself between Shiro’s legs, the length of rope tossed onto Shiro’s belly and the rest of the tools dumped by his side. “Put it back down,” and Shiro does, trapping Matt in the v of his powerful thighs.

 

“How are you doing?” Matt asks Shiro softly.

 

Two knocks against the mattress. _Good._

 

“You were really helpful, with the laundry,” Matt tells him. “I couldn’t have done it by myself. And the groceries were super thoughtful. You made my life a lot easier.” Shiro smiles happily at the praise. “Do you want another pillow for your head? Just nod or shake, you don’t have to speak.”

 

Shiro slowly shakes his head.

 

“Okay,” Matt says. “Hands at your sides. Get hard if you can, but it’s okay if it doesn’t happen, I can be creative,” and he makes a larks head knot in the rope and reaches forward to carefully lift Shiro’s cock and balls up from his body, feeding them through and then tightening the loop. 

 

He doesn’t want to mess up the rope with any lube, so he spits into his hand and starts to jerk Shiro off, Shiro’s cock starting to slowly fill in Matt’s hand, gently curving to the left. Shiro’s cock and balls can and have taken plenty of abuse from Matt, but Shiro always feels so fragile here, his skin soft and sensitive, one of the few parts of his body that wasn’t designed for war. 

 

Matt pumps a little harder, rubbing his thumb along Shiro’s cockhead, the room quiet but for the soft clatter of the fan and Shiro’s deep, contented breathing and the rustle of Matt’s shirt. He didn’t want to take any of his clothes off this time. It’s okay, because Shiro says he likes the power imbalance of it, being naked and vulnerable while Matt stays clothed, and Matt ignores the shiver that crawls across him at that, _#39285D hands against the wall_ , because he’s not just hurting Shiro, it’s a reciprocal relationship, he’s bringing him pleasure too. 

 

That’s what the laundry was for — a little treat for Shiro, who so loves to be useful, who _needs_ to be useful, and Matt doesn’t need to be cared for, he always finds a way to make it work alone, but Shiro gives him so much; Matt can suck it up and let him do it just this once.

 

Shiro’s fully hard now, so Matt stops jerking him off, reaching instead for the trailing end of the rope and starting to wind it around the base of Shiro’s cock, around & around & around & around again, and then brings the rope down to his balls, figure-eights around & around & around & around until each testicle is wrapped up tight, the thin skin there stretched taut and red against the blue rope. Matt finishes with a little bow knot at the base of Shiro’s cock and moves Shiro’s balls around experimentally to make sure nothing is going to pop free, then taps against one of Shiro’s testicles, testing, and Shiro jumps.

 

“Awesome,” Matt says, grinning, and reaches out with both hands and squeezes, _hard_.

 

Shiro shouts, then moans unhappily as Matt squeezes again, not-so-gently tugging Shiro’s balls away from his body.

 

“You always have the best reactions,” Matt says, delighted, as he works one testicle and then the other, sharp rhythmic bursts of pain that leave Shiro shaking and gasping and gritting his teeth against it. “Not to monologue, but all the noises you make when I do stuff like _this_ —” squeezing both balls at the same time, and Shiro howls in agony “— are super great. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.” 

 

Matt pets Shiro’s trembling flank, then flicks Shiro’s right testicle hard with his finger, and Shiro whimpers, his eyelashes already wet with tears. “I should have. I don’t want you to think that I don’t appreciate it. That you do this for me.” 

 

He squeezes again as emphasis, and Shiro sobs, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. Shiro’s just bracing himself against the pain, Matt uneasily reminds himself. Shiro would never hurt him ( _not again_ ). “And I _really_ appreciate you not squashing me like a bug.”

 

He drums his fingers on Shiro’s left testicle, and Shiro shudders, the muscles in his stomach jumping. “You’re being so good for me. But yeah, it must be tough to hold still. You work so hard for me. Maybe next time we do this I’ll bust out the bondage. I bet you’d look awesome in rope. Something like this,” he says, stroking the edge where the thin blue rope meets Shiro’s skin, and even that’s enough to make Shiro shiver, “but really strong, something you can’t just tear through, so you don’t have to work so hard to hold back, and then I can do _this_ —” flicking the right testicle hard, then the left, then the right, Shiro moaning each time, “—as much as I want, and nobody has to worry about you accidentally hurting me. That’d be fun, right? Nod or shake.” 

 

Shiro nods again, and Matt lets himself imagine it: Shiro spread out against the mattress, the blue ropes brilliant against his skin as he strains uselessly against them, trapped underneath Matt and entirely at his mercy, at his pleasure, at his _fun_ , just waiting for it to be over and silently begging that Matt will finish fast this time, that Matt won’t want to make an example of him, Shiro’s hands on the wall, he chose the rod so he gets the crop, blue ropes against hard barracks-bunk wood, but Shiro was never there, was he? Was he? He was supposed to come back, he was supposed to rescue some kid, but Matt’s mind is jumbling things up again, because Shiro didn’t come back, Shiro left that kid behind with the monsters, monsters that took and took and hurt and enjoyed it —

 

Matt blinks, then shakes his head to clear it. When he looks down, he realizes that he’s stopped touching Shiro, and Shiro is looking up at him, his gaze soft and unfocused and not the least bit concerned.

 

“Shiro, are you — are you here?” Matt asks hesitantly. “You’re here with me, right? Nod if you can hear me,” and Shiro nods slowly, a spaced-out smile spreading across his face, and Matt lets out a shaky, grateful breath. “Hand signal. How are you feeling?”

 

Two knocks against the mattress. _Good_.

 

“Do you want to keep going?” Matt asks.

 

Two knocks. _Yes._

 

“Okay,” Matt says. “Okay, um, yeah, let’s do that,” but the Matt Thoughts aren’t going back in the cupboard where they belong, buzzing around his head instead like wasps in a bell jar. To buy himself time to reboot Dom-Brain.exe, he reaches for the chemical hot pack that he set next to Shiro, setting it to _low_ and crushing the crystals within to release the heat, and then does the same with the cold pack. They’re the fancy kind from the Castle medical supply, not the cheap knock-offs that burned rectangles into Matt’s back the time he fell asleep on them, but Matt tests them out against the skin of his left forearm anyway. Warm, but not hot; cold, but not dangerously so. They won’t hurt Shiro. 

 

Wrong. They won’t _harm_ Shiro. They will hurt him, because that’s what Matt does, but it’s okay, because Shiro wants it, he wants it, he said he wanted it, Matt’s just doing what Shiro asked him to. It’s okay.

 

“Hey, Shiro,” Matt says softly. “I promise, I won’t ask you to make lots of decisions, but I do need you to make one. Do you want me to keep hurting you?”

 

Two knocks. _Yes._

 

“Okay,” Matt says, and looks down at the cold pack. Both packs have tiny cartoon characters printed on them — the two chubby, beaming Olkari from the _Leaf & Shoot_ show, surrounded by sparkles and stars and fat white flowers. Matt has a terrible suspicion that these were originally intended for pediatric use. 

 

Normally, he hates it when Shiro forgets to switch from Dad Mode to Treating Matt Like a Fucking Adult Mode, but right now, it’s weirdly comforting. Torturers can be creative, Matt knows that from experience, he still gets twitchy around buckets of sand, but nobody can be that scary when the worst thing they’re wielding is a bright green cold pack covered with children’s cartoon characters.

 

“I’m gonna — Um, yeah, okay, yeah,” Matt says, very eloquently, and grips Shiro’s cock with one hand and wraps the thin cold pack around the cockhead. Shiro jerks, but doesn’t make a sound, and then Matt drops the cold pack and wraps the hot pack around the cockhead instead, and Shiro yelps.

 

“I’m not going to burn your dick off, I promise,” Matt says. “See, because you’re so sensitive right now, your brain interprets the rapid change in temperature as pain. Cool, right?” He wraps the cold pack around the head of Shiro’s cock, and Shiro hisses, toes curling. “Cool.” Ten seconds, then Matt switches to the hot pack again, and Shiro whimpers. “And hot! Warm, actually, not hot, your nervous system is just messing with you. Yay science!”

 

Cold, then hot, and then Matt gets daring and picks up the stylus, tapping it lightly against Shiro’s left testicle, again & again & again, just enough to be maddening, not excruciating. Tap tap tap, cold, hot, tap tap tap, cold, hot, tap tap tap tap, until Shiro’s squirming, and it’s a lot gentler than Matt usually is, but it’s okay, it’s good, it’s still fun, nothing that Shiro would need to be tied down for, nothing that Shiro would want to escape, nothing that Shiro would beg for it to stop, and Matt does his best to ignore the flicker of disappointment inside him at that thought.

 

This is enough, Matt tries to tell himself. It’s enough for him to be playful and harmless, to always be the weakest thing in the room, to feed himself scraps and try to convince himself that he’s full. It’s enough.

 

(Except it isn’t enough, not at all. Matt wants, he  wants , back pain eclipsed and the Matt Thoughts only a distant buzz drowned out by the bloody drumbeat starting to again pound through his veins, and _it’s okay_ , the dark squirming thing inside him whispers; _more_ , it demands; _break him, rip him up into atoms, take him apart and_ _enjoy_ _it —_ )

 

“Not enough?” Matt asks, and after a moment of hesitation, he flicks the stylus hard against the testicle he’s been tapping. Shiro cries out, in agony or maybe relief — relief, relief, it must be relief, it has to be relief, because that means that it’s okay — so Matt does it again, and Shiro groans, his whole body as tight as the ropes Matt wants to trap him with. 

 

Shiro’s so sensitive right now, it wouldn’t take much for something to be excruciating, and Matt puts down the stylus and gives a quick experimental little pinch to the side of Shiro’s cock. It’s barely anything, but Shiro sobs, his hands clenching into fists, and Matt pinches him again, fascinated, tugging on the foreskin a little. He watches Shiro’s face for his reaction, and he’s not disappointed — in fact, he’s really fucking delighted, because Shiro has tears streaming down his cheeks, teeth clenched and hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, and it’s not enough, not at all. 

 

Matt hesitates for the briefest of seconds, and then reaches out and pinches the glans of Shiro’s cock, hard, and Shiro _shrieks_ , trying to squirm free. Matt eases up the pressure for a second, like he’s going to let Shiro escape, like he’s going to be merciful — 

 

“Just kidding,” Matt says, grinning, and digs his fingernails into the foreskin at the tip of Shiro’s cock and _twists_ , and Shiro wails, writhing in agony.

 

“This might actually be my favorite thing in the whole world,” Matt says as he alternatively works Shiro’s glans and foreskin, pinching and twisting and tugging as Shiro sobs desperately. Matt is so damn turned on right now that it’s almost painful, but getting a hand on his cock means having to stop hurting Shiro’s, and he’s definitely not doing that. “And I’m _really_ glad these apartments have thick walls. Do you think Allura factored that in when she went apartment hunting? What am I saying, of course she did. Hand signal.”

 

The dark slimy thing inside Matt really doesn’t fucking care what Shiro’s answer is, it wants to strap Shiro down and take & take & take, blue rope against hard barracks-bunk wood ( _but Shiro wasn’t there, and Matt wasn’t there either, it was someone else, so it’s okay—_ ). Shiro doesn’t answer right away, but that happens sometimes, Shiro’s a little slow when he’s in subspace, it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong, it doesn’t, it doesn’t… 

 

Matt still lets go, ignoring the uneasy twinge of nausea. After a moment Shiro manages a shaky double knock. He’s still here. They’re both still here.

 

“You’re being so good, Shiro,” Matt says, relieved, and squeezes Shiro’s balls for emphasis, Shiro letting out a short choked-off cry. “Seriously, the best, I couldn’t ask for anyone better.” 

 

Even through the rictus of pain, Shiro smiles at that, and Matt doesn’t have a name for the feeling that blooms inside him at that. He wants to kiss Shiro. He wants to shove their biggest butt plug up Shiro’s ass and a ball gag between Shiro’s teeth and tie Shiro up and never let him leave. He wants to cut Shiro open and climb inside and pull the bloody flaps shut behind him, curled up warm and safe with his hand around Shiro’s heart like a threat, only his mercy keeping it beating.

 

Matt’s barely noticing the pain in his back right now, burned away by the rush of endorphins singing through him, so he lets go of Shiro’s cock and scoots backwards a little, enough to bend forward and press a kiss to Shiro’s hipbone, trying to ignore Shiro’s cock bobbing way too close to his face, because there are certain kinds of bodies that he can do certain things to and Shiro’s isn’t one of them, Shiro’s got his hands free, he could reach down and grab Matt’s hair and it’s only a few inches, Shiro’s so much stronger than him — but Shiro doesn’t grab, doesn’t move at all, and Matt bites down on the place that he kissed, grinding the flesh between his teeth as Shiro hisses in pain, then draws back to admire his work. 

 

He didn’t break the skin, but it’s already dark red. By tomorrow it’ll be blue-black, painful to press down on, and Matt knows that Shiro will touch it when he’s alone or with Allura, because Shiro’s told Matt that he treasures every mark that Matt gives him, always asks for darker, harder, _more_. One time he convinced Matt to leave a ring of hickeys and bite marks all the way around his throat, and Matt’s  never doing that again, nearly threw up when he woke up the next morning and saw how the bruises had darkened to ring Shiro’s neck like a collar, like a noose, prisoner transport and the threat of a thousand volts around his neck, Galra informant swinging from the tree with eyes bulging and swollen tongue — but God, Matt had liked how it looked on Shiro, the violence that had claimed Shiro as his.

 

“Thank you for letting me do this to you,” Matt says quietly. “I really like it. I’m really enjoying myself.”

 

Shiro smiles again, even though his cock and balls must still be throbbing with pain. They’ve been tied up long enough — maybe too long, actually, Matt’s not 100% sure how much time he lost earlier — so Matt pushes Shiro’s cock aside to tug apart the bow holding the ends of the rope binding Shiro’s genitals, gently unwrapping the rope enough to get a good grip on the ends.

 

“This part is always fun,” Matt says happily, and yanks on the ends. The loops of rope unravel, sending Shiro’s cock and balls whipping around. Shiro screams in agony, and Matt laughs, because it’s silly and horrific and wonderful and he is so, so fucked up for loving it, the guard with the whip, the torturer with sand and stun baton, the thing squirming into him in the dark — deep down, Matt knows exactly what he is, and for one brief, shining moment, he doesn’t fucking _care._

 

“ _Windmills_ ,” Matt says with feeling, Shiro whimpering even at light touch as Matt loosens the larks head loop and works Shiro’s genitals free of the rope, coiling it up around his hand and tossing it on the floor along with the stylus and hot pack for Shiro to clean up later, although on second thought, he keeps the cold pack handy. “You’re not getting off today, but I am _dying_ over here, so… Get onto your stomach, I think, facing me. You can be up on your elbows if you want. If your shoulder or neck hurts, tell me.”

 

Shiro sits up and turns around, gingerly settling down onto his front — having his cock and balls crushed between his body and the mattress must be awful, Matt notes with glee — and Matt pops the condom pod and rolls the condom onto his cock and gets a harsh grip in Shiro’s hair and pulls him down, none too careful beyond getting his cock in Shiro’s mouth instead of accidentally poking him in the eye, and setting a fast, cruel rhythm that’s going to leave Shiro breathless by the end. 

 

Matt doesn’t last long — he never does, during kink scenes, although he’s seriously considering experimenting with a cock ring for himself so the face-fucking can go on until Shiro’s raw and exhausted and then a little longer after that, Allura has Shiro do that sometimes and it’s _amazing_ — and at that image, Matt comes with a groan, Shiro gagging a little as Matt shoves his head down a little too far.

 

“Whoops,” Matt says as Shiro coughs and gasps, Matt not the least bit sorry — but it’s time to be sorry now, Matt thinks with sadness as he lets go of Shiro’s hair and his world dims a little and he remembers how fucking small he is to the universe. It’s time to come back. It’s time to face what he’s done.

 

“Okay. Um. We’re finished,” Matt says, trying to sound gentle. “Shiro, I can’t do a lot right now with my back, so I’m going to need you to do some of the aftercare work for yourself, okay? Can you do that?” and Shiro nods vaguely, flopped on his back and breathing hard. “Hand me the water bottle?”

 

Shiro hands him the water bottle Matt keeps beside the bed. Matt pops the cap release — anything even remotely complicated is always difficult for Shiro after scenes — and drinks just enough to not have to pee like crazy twenty minutes from now, then hands it back to Shiro, still open.

 

“Drink until you’re not thirsty anymore,” Matt tells him. Shiro drinks a lot more than Matt did — he must have been thirsty, Matt thinks guiltily; stupid, Matt should have checked in about that, he knows Shiro doesn’t notice things like that when he’s down deep — and then Matt hands him the balled-up ultra-light blanket that’s a standard part of Shiro’s aftercare routine. 

 

Maybe he should get a weighted one for Shiro’s birthday, Matt thinks absently. If he remembers Shiro’s birthday this time. But he’s sober now, so of course he’ll remember, he won’t spend it passed out on the floor of his sad goat cottage and miss 10 calls from Shiro, or hear from Allura afterwards that she had to spend the entirety of Shiro’s birthday party trying to convince Shiro that Matt probably wasn’t dead.

 

“You can settle over there,” Matt says, pointing to the small mountain of pillows at the head of the mattress where he’s been spending about 70% of this last week. “Wrap yourself up in the blanket and lay down.”

 

Shiro nods and manages to roll himself into a loose burrito after a lot of vague flopping around. Matt collects the cold pack, wrapping it in the shirt that Shiro left here a while back and Matt definitely doesn’t sleep on top of, and scoots over to Shiro’s side, ignoring the stabbing bolts of pain in his lower back every time he drags himself forward.

 

“It’s not going to be fun, but you should ice them so you can actually walk tomorrow,” Matt says, lifting up the blanket to settle the wrapped-up cold pack on Shiro’s junk. “Here, you’ll have to hold it in place, I can’t reach.” Shiro does, wincing, and it’s roughly ten million degrees outside and maybe eight million in the apartment with every single fan Matt owns on high blast, so Matt doesn’t lay down to cuddle Shiro like he normally does after a scene, just settles back against his small mountain of pillows, wiggling until he finds the least painful angle to lean at.

 

He just doesn’t want Shiro to get heatstroke, that’s all. The blanket is bad enough, even though it’s on the Shiro’s Absolutely Required Aftercare List; adding body heat to that would end up with both of them in Waterway Clinic with nurses stabbing them with IV needles — or at least trying, and hoping that the needles would send Shiro into one of his ragdoll dissociative medical PTSD episodes and not one of the terrifyingly violent ones. The no cuddles has nothing to do with the fact that Matt’s skin crawls when he thinks about laying next to someone in bed, the weight of their body next to his, breath on the back of his neck.

 

“You can lay your head here,” Matt tells Shiro, patting his thigh. Shiro flops down, and Matt pets his hair, gently brushing out the loose strands that he yanked right out of Shiro’s scalp when he had Shiro by the hair for the blowjob.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” Matt says softly, stroking Shiro’s hair, his forehead, the sweep of an eyebrow, the curve of a cheekbone. “I don’t tell you that enough, but I think that all the time. So beautiful, and so good for me. You did exactly what I needed you to do, and I had a great time, I really enjoyed myself. I hope you enjoyed it too. You’re so good to me.” 

 

Matt swallows hard. “You’re much better to me than I deserve.” 

 

Shiro has his eyes closed now, floating in whatever wonderful place he says that Matt hurting him and using him sends him to. “You’re a good person,” Matt says. “I know you don’t believe it, but trust me, I know what a bad person looks like, and it’s not you. I really want to do better for you, Shiro. I’m trying. I’m trying really hard. You deserve someone who tries really hard for you. You deserve to feel good. You deserve to be happy.”

 

Matt traces just under the oxygen mask abrasion scar that runs across the bridge of Shiro’s nose. “I want you so much. I hope you know that too. Any time you feel unwanted, you can just think, hey, Matt’s in Quuduzh, wanting me, and it’ll be true. All the time, even when I’m furious at you, I want you. Not just for sex, although you’re gorgeous and super sexy. I just… want you. All of you.”

 

Matt tucks the blanket a little tighter around Shiro, and Shiro turns in towards him, face pressed against his shirt. “Thank you for today. It was amazing. You’re amazing. You did everything perfectly. I loved it. I…”

 

Matt pauses, then says instead, “Do you want to hear a funny story about something I did in the simulator lab at work? You probably won’t remember it, you usually don’t remember what we tell you right now, but I can tell you again over dinner. TL;DR: Computers don’t like black holes and Eena saved my butt. Too long but _did_ read: I was at home and really bored and my back was hurting so I couldn’t go out anywhere, so I started thinking about how cool it would be to smash black holes smash together…”

 

Matt talks until his mouth is dry and his back is aching from the weight of Shiro’s head on his legs, and then he drinks some water and talks some more — about his pemme campaign with PB-C, his pemme campaign with the aunties, Eena’s adventures in the professorial track, Anawaitshe’s endless chain of hired and fired jobs, Shashis and the problem of cousin Asmi, the soup he and Shiro are going to have for dinner tonight, anything and everything he can think of — and eventually Shiro stirs and opens his eyes and asks, “Why is there an cold pack on my balls?”

 

“I put your junk through the wringer,” Matt says. “Well, not literally, that’s a little advanced, but I did some mean things to it and it’s going to hate you tomorrow.”

 

“I’m okay with that,” Shiro says, grinning.

 

“You say that now, but you have diplomatic meetings tomorrow,” Matt points out.

 

Shiro shrugs, stretching out like a cat, then winces. “You might have a point.”

 

“I’m sorry if I —” Matt starts, but Shiro cuts him off.

 

“No, it was great,” Shiro says, smiling up at him kind of dopily. “It was exactly what I wanted.” He laughs shakily. “I still feel pretty high, to be honest.”

 

“Endorphins are great,” Matt says. “We should get some food in you before they wear off and you crash.”

 

“You and blood sugar,” Shiro says, sounding fond. He looks over to where the crop is still laid out on the kitchen table. “Is that the —”

 

“Oh, um, yeah,” Matt says.

 

“Were you planning to use that today?” Shiro asks.

 

“I was, but I wasn’t feeling up to doing a lot of standing, and it’s hard to use one of those sitting down,” Matt says, and all of those things are technically true, so it doesn’t count as a lie. “Next time.”

 

“Go to PT,” Shiro says, yawning. Scenes always take it out of him.

 

“I’ll think about it,” Matt says. Translation: no.

 

“I know that means no,” Shiro says. “Is it money? We can help out —”

 

“It’s not money, I have money,” Matt says. “I just… don’t want to deal with some stranger touching me, okay? I have a bad enough time when I end up in the ER here.”

 

“Gabar said —” Shiro starts, and Matt groans.

 

“ _Don’t_ talk to me about Gabar while we’re in bed together,” Matt says. “Let’s not argue, okay?” Matt goes back to petting Shiro’s hair, and Shiro hums happily. Did Matt remember to lock his front door? Maybe Shiro should check before he gets comfy. Matt’s pretty helpless right now. “Let’s just make it a good visit.”

 

“Mmm,” Shiro says sleepily. “It’s been a good visit so far. A _great_ visit.”

 

“Good,” Matt says quietly, gently pressing his finger to Shiro’s jugular, and Shiro lets him, just like he lets him do so many other things. The bite mark on Shiro’s hip is starting to darken now, purple like the walls of the cages at the Arena, where a little piece of both of them died and something uglier was born. He can feel Shiro’s pulse under his fingertip. Strong. Steady. Healthy. _Real._ “I’m glad.”

 

 

*

 

 

“Heard quite a racket from here yesterday,” Meas comments over the next night’s game of pemme — in his apartment again, since Matt’s not feeling up to going up to the bizit. “Were you torturing someone up here?”

 

“Haha,” Matt says uncomfortably. “No. Just… Elvis.”

 

“Mm. Your man does get loud,” Pesh says, with a gleam in her eye that means loud!Shiro is probably going to show up in _At the Black Paladin’s Pleasure: the Sequel_.

 

“Yep,” Matt says with a forced smile, and then spends the rest of the night after they leave in bed, staring dully at the ceiling. You know. Because of his back.

 

 

*

 

 

*

 

 

The “I have money” thing he told Shiro is… well, it’s not a _lie_. It’s a slight inaccuracy in Matt’s verbal account of the state of reality, deliberately constructed so as to avoid Shiro’s guaranteed offer of financial help and the look on Shiro’s face afterwards and getting mad at Allura when she offers to give him money and inevitably plays the Princess Card of “money isn’t important and I certainly don’t understand it”, since she plays it  every single time they have this argument. 

 

And true, she might not be able to figure out the concept of pocket change, but she pulls enough galactic purse-strings in her political machinations to know exactly what it means to be in debt — to owe someone something they promise that you’ll never have to pay, but Matt knows that’s wrong, the bill always comes due in the end, paid one way or another, and if the payment isn’t given, it’s just taken —

 

Anyway, the state of his finances is probably not great, and after he makes himself a giant mug of tea that he definitely doesn’t wish is alcohol, he sits down to gingerly dip his metal toes into the seething mass of late fees and bounced autopays that is his bank account to figure out exactly how much not great it is.

 

He’s never actually looked at it before. He’s got a rent autopay set up (also thanks to Allura), he probably??? pays his taxes or at least hasn’t gotten any angry letters about them yet, and he doesn’t buy any luxury items other than the odd sex toy. He doesn’t cook any more than he has to — he’s still got one hell of an ugly burn on his forearm from falling onto the hotplate — but he’s got his garden and the bizits and all the eggs and cheese and stew and bread and soup that he gets in trade from his neighbors and money for cheap takeout to make up the difference, so it’s fine!

 

1-17 TIZE 822FA | ACCOUNT #93840 | ROUTING #777234 | “MATTHEW HOLT”

1’Ti 822FA AUTOPAY TO “MOUNDALLEY APARTMENTS”: -860.00b

2’Ti 822FA DEPOSIT FROM MONEY ORDER: +55.00b

3’Ti 822FA CHARGE TO “THE BAKERY”: -47.99b

5’Ti 822FA DEPOSIT FROM MONEY ORDER: +244.00b

8’Ti 822FA CHARGE TO “THE BAKERY”: -25.99b

9’Ti 822FA DEPOSIT FROM MONEY ORDER: +111.44b

11’Ti 822FA AUTOPAY TO “QUUDUZH CITY POWER AND GAS”: -110.00b

11’Ti 822FA AUTOPAY TO “QUUDUZH CITY SERVICES”: -550.00b

12’Ti 822FA CHARGE TO “THE STEWERY”: -12.99b

13’Ti 822FA CHARGE TO “THE BAKERY”: -55.99b

14’Ti 822FA DEPOSIT FROM MONEY ORDER: +222.44b

15’Ti 822FA DEPOSIT FROM “QUUDUZH UNIVERSITY”: +3300.00b

15’Ti 822FA CHARGE TO “THE STEWERY”: -14.99b

AUTOPAY TO “QUUDUZH CITY WATER” PENDING: -88.00b

17’Ti 822FA ACCOUNT BALANCE: 3892.00b

 

His account is actually… not bad. Surprisingly cushy, in fact. Suspiciously cushy, considering his financial policy is usually FINGERS-IN-EARS-NA-NA-NA-NA-I-CAN’T-HEAR-LATE-FEES. He squints a little more closely at the numbers. 

 

2’Ti 822FA DEPOSIT FROM MONEY ORDER: +122.00b

5’Ti 822FA DEPOSIT FROM MONEY ORDER: +244.00b

9’Ti 822FA DEPOSIT FROM MONEY ORDER: +111.44b

14’Ti 822FA DEPOSIT FROM MONEY ORDER: +222.44b

 

He doesn’t remember getting any money orders. He never gets money orders. His neighbors pay him in goods and food and favors, not money. According to Pesh, paying a neighbor in money is rude as fuck and bad bizi, because that’s like paying _family_ in money, what the fuck is an “allowance”, well, no wonder you lost your legs, your parents giving you such bad luck like that. He doesn’t know where the money orders came from, and this must be a mistake, the bank made a mistake and now they’ll think he’s a thief even though the only bad decision he made was trusting Allura to set up an account for him with the local credit union instead of the kind of evil but apparently better managed Bank of Quuduzh, they’ll send him to prison and he can’t do that again, he can’t, he can’t, guards and fences and barracks and black mud, he CAN’T —

 

But that’s wrong. He knows where the money came from. With a sudden fury, he just fucking knows. 

 

He pulls up his bank statements from Bem, from Bat, from En, from Qa, from every month he’s been in this city. Money orders, small amounts, but regular as clockwork. 12,000b in total, and he never even noticed because he relaxed, he let his guard down, he thought he was _safe_.

 

**me, an intellectual:** (20:05) shiro I need to talk 2 u

**me, an intellectual:** (20:05) NOW.

 

 

*

 

 

“What’s wrong?!” Shiro says as soon as the vidcom video stabilizes, his eyes wide and — terrified, Matt realizes, but he’s much too angry to care.

 

“Why were there anonymous money orders deposited to my bank account?” Matt asks tightly.

 

“What?” Shiro asks, confused.

 

“Why. Is there. An extra seven hundred b. In my bank account. That isn’t supposed to be there,” Matt says, flat and furious. “Why was there _twelve thousand b_ deposited to my account this year that I didn’t earn.”

 

Shiro suddenly looks guilty. “Matt —” 

 

“I told you,” Matt says, gritting his teeth. “Shiro, I _told_ you not to do that, and you didn’t listen, you just did it anyway —”

 

“It wasn’t me?” Shiro tries.

 

“Oh, well, if it was Allura, that’s alright then,” Matt says too brightly. “It suddenly doesn’t matter that she did something I specifically told you both not to do, not if it’s Allura who did it!”

 

“It wasn’t Allura either,” Shiro says.

 

“Well, I know it wasn’t Pidge,” Matt says. “They refused to lend me any money because they think I’m just going to spend it on alcohol.”

 

Shiro frowns. “Wait, you haven’t told them that you’re sober?”

 

“Shiro, who was it?” Matt snaps.

 

“…Allura just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Shiro tries to explain. “And we know you have problems with money. But it technically wasn’t her. Taz set it up. Allura didn’t know the details.”

 

“Oh. Taz,” Matt says flatly. “Good. She’s always been a little afraid of me, so she’ll listen when you tell her that _I’ll hunt her down and dig her eyes out if she messes with my life again._ ” 

 

“Allura was just looking out for you,” Shiro says.

 

“And when the fuck did I say she could do that?” Matt asks angrily.

 

“You knew she was the one who created your job, you said you were alright with it —” Shiro tries.

 

“Because I thought it was a one-time thing!” Matt shouts. “It didn’t give you the right to just — go into my life and change whatever the fuck you want to, you don’t get to _do_ that —!”

 

“Matt,” he hears Shiro say, Matt he can barely hear it over the blood pounding in his ears, his breath coming faster and faster even as he orders himself to _stop!!!_ because he is not doing this in front of Shiro, he is not going to show this to Shiro, Shiro doesn’t get to have that too —

 

“Tell Taz to Gee Tee F Oh,” Matt grits out.

 

“Well, it’s not Taz now. I think she actually delegated you to Nout,” Shiro says awkwardly. “And Ulin was already active in Quuduzh, so he probably delegated you to her.”

 

“Oh. Ulin. Great,” Matt says, trying not to let his voice tremble. “Love her. She’s been watching me?!”

 

“You knew she was the one dealing with your neighbors,” Shiro says.

 

“Yeah, I knew, and I hated it, but that was about protecting you,” Matt says tightly. “That’s different. I didn’t know she was keeping tabs on me personally.”

 

“It’s not a big deal,” Shiro tries. “We have the money. We’re not expecting it back —”

 

“Shiro, that’s not the point!” Matt says, vaguely aware that he’s starting to sound a little hysterical. “I told you not to do this and you did. You didn’t listen! You didn’t care that I told you no!”

 

“Well, I’m sorry that we didn’t want you to end up homeless again,” Shiro snaps. “It was really inconsiderate of us.”

 

“Yes, it fucking was!” Matt shouts.

 

“I think you’re overreacting to this,” Shiro says in his soothing Dad Voice.

 

“I am not overreacting,” Matt hisses. He pauses as the murky memory of Alric’s first visit to Quuduzh and a conversation with Allura struggles gasping to the surface. “What else has Ulin been doing?”

 

“I don’t know,” Shiro lies.

 

“Shiro, don’t lie to me about this,” Matt says. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

 

“…She’s been helping with the University administration,” Shiro reluctantly admits. “Not doing a lot! Just… reminding them that you have friends. Buying time until you got better.” Shiro tries a big Proud Dad smile. “But you did! It took you a while, but you did, and we’re so proud of you —”

 

“Oh, fuck you, Shirogane,” Matt hisses. “You can take that condescension and shove it up your ass. You and Allura both can.”

 

“I’m not trying to be condescending,” Shiro says condescendingly. “Look, it’s fine. You’re better now. Ulin can pull back.”

 

“It’s not _fine_ ,” Matt spits. “I don’t want Ulin to _pull back_ , I want her fucking gone. I don’t want ‘dealing’ with my neighbors, or interfering with my job, or giving me money, none of it! Honestly, I want her dead just on principle. You should have arranged an accident years ago.”

 

“She’s useful,” Shiro says quietly.

 

“You are way too comfortable with monsters, Shiro,” Matt says. “Seriously. You have a problem.”

 

“Nout can give the assignment to someone else —” Shiro starts.

 

“No! That’s not the point!” Matt says. “The point is that I’m not an assignment! Tell Allura to get Ulin to stop. Maybe she’ll listen to you. She obviously doesn’t listen to me!”

 

“We do listen to you,” Shiro argues.

 

“Really?” Matt says, heart pounding. “Because for people so obsessed with consent, you’re sure not interested in getting mine.”

 

“That’s not fair,” Shiro says.

 

“Isn’t it?” Matt says, digging his nails into his palms out of view of the vidcom camera. “I never told you that you could run my life for me. I never gave you permission for that.”

 

“We’re not trying to run your life, Matt,” Shiro says. “If we were, we would have dragged you off to rehab or Olkari or the Homes of Healing or whatever we thought might actually help you instead of spending all the time between visits wondering whether you’d make it to the next one.”

 

“Okay, that’s not fair either,” Matt says.

 

“Allura was just trying to help,” Shiro says. “We care about you. We want you to be happy, and it’s obvious that you were miserable.” 

 

Shiro pauses, then adds, “And to be completely honest, Matt, you were making everyone else miserable too.”

 

“I never promised I would make you happy,” Matt says.

 

“Well, I thought you would at least try,” Shiro says.

 

“Shiro, I do,” Matt says. “I try so hard.”

 

“I know, but… Matt, you have _no idea_ what it’s like to love someone and watch them try to kill themselves every single day,” Shiro says desperately. “And I tried not to say a lot, because I knew that the person your drinking was hardest on was you, but… It’s been hard for us, too.”

 

“You think it’s easy caring about you?!” Matt says incredulously, the words just tumbling out of him. “At least I’m not going to slit my wrists the first time Alric says ‘I hate you’. Caring about you is just an exercise in stress management.”

 

Shiro stares at him, stricken, and Matt’s stomach drops somewhere in the vicinity of the sub-basement. “Shiro, I didn’t mean that.”

 

“You did,” Shiro says brokenly. “I can tell that you did.”

 

“Fine, yeah, you’re stressful sometimes,” Matt tries to backpedal. Is the room getting hotter? “I am too.”

 

“You’re better now,” Shiro says. “And we forgive you.”

 

_But I’m not getting better_ , Shiro doesn’t say. And Shiro could, with time and love and patience and care, with Allura and Alric and Keith and everyone else who loves him, he’s already so much better than he was twenty years ago, even five years ago — but he’ll probably never be completely free of it. He’ll never be easy to care about.

 

“Shiro, I —” Matt says, and he wants to say the words, _I forgive you, I lo—_ But he can’t. Because he doesn’t forgive Shiro. Because he said no, he said stop, he said don’t, and Shiro and Allura didn’t listen.

 

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Shiro says quietly, as Matt struggles to find any magic words that could sound believable. “We’ll talk later, alright? When you’ve had a chance to calm down.”

 

“Shiro —” Matt starts desperately, but the screen goes dark. Matt frantically mashes the CALL button again, but it just rings and rings and rings, and he manages to type out a message to Allura before the panic attack hits him and he forgets that he can breathe.

 

 

*

 

 

**me, an intellectual:** (20:47) EMERGENCY 

**me, an intellectual:** (20:47) GO FIND SHIRO RIGHT NOW

**me, an intellectual:** (20:47) I DONT KNOW IF HES SAFE FROM HIMSELF

**me, an intellectual:** (20:48) n pls tell me when u find him

**made of** ☆  **stuff:** (20:48) Understood. We’re both on the Castle. I’ll find him.

**me, an intellectual:** (20:48) just pls hurry

 

****made of** ☆  **stuff:** ** (21:01) I found him. He’s alright. Or rather, he’s not alright, but he’s safe.

****made of** ☆  **stuff:** ** (21:01) But you were right to message me.

 

**me, an intellectual:** (1:33) how is he???

**made of** ☆  **stuff:** (1:34) Asleep. I’m still with him.

**made of** **☆** **stuff:** (1:34) What happened? He wouldn’t tell me.

**me, an intellectual:** (1:34) we had a fight

**me, an intellectual:** (1:35) i said some stuff i didnt mean

**me, an intellectual:** (1:35) when he wakes up can u just…

**me, an intellectual:** (1:36) remind him tht i want him

**me, an intellectual:** (1:36) all th time.

**me, an intellectual:** (1:36) n DONT send me any more money. tell ulin to back off.

**made of** **☆** **stuff:** (1:37) She was acting under my orders. Shiro had nothing to do with it.

**me, an intellectual:** (1:37) but he still knew and didnt do shit 2 stop it even tho i TOLD u both tht i dont want ur money

**made of** **☆** **stuff:** (1:37) We can discuss this further when I visit.

**me, an intellectual:** (1:38) uh no we cant this is non negotiable

**me, an intellectual:** (1:38) tell ulin 2 stop

**me, an intellectual:** (1:39) n take ur money back. i dont want it.

 

**made of** **☆** **stuff:** (2:01) As you wish.

 

 

*

 

 

There’s no guarantee that Allura will tell Ulin to stop, of course. That’s what you get for trusting anyone who claims to be your friend — they offer you a safe place to sleep or a good piece of intel or a visiting professorship in Quuduzh and boom, you’renaked and hanging by your wrists from the ceiling while a bored Galra torturer jabs you with a stun baton. Trust is a Bad Decision, every time, and he was an idiot to forget that.

 

But his brain needs something to chew on now that he’s happily sober, and his classes and the Holt & Holt Lizard 2.0 Collaboration isn’t enough to plug the cracks where the bad thoughts worm through, so CONSTANT VIGILANCE is a great project to work on. It’s very time-consuming!

 

He’ll have to be sneaky, too, because now that he’s caught Allura having the money put directly into his bank account, she’ll find some other way to non-consensually care for him: a sudden bump in pay, maybe, or tax refund, or mysterious discount at every market stall he regularly shops at except the ones that sell anything more alcoholic than a slightly overripe fruit (not that that’s a concern AT ALL!), because Allura is too sneaky to just have one of Ulin’s army of secret agents stuff a bunch of 111b bills through the delicate latticework of his faculty locker, a thought that makes him stop and wonder for the first time just how _many_ people Ulin has keeping tabs on him, which makes him wonder if anyone else has people keeping tabs on him and who all those people are, there’s got to be some agents in his neighborhood, maybe some in his classroom, some in his building, and Ulin never stops ( _no matter how brokenly they beg_ ) so why would she stop at _people_ when she could plant bugs too —

 

It takes about four hours and a lot of bending over, but he tears his apartment apart looking for any listening devices, wiping his datapad to kill any malware and also possibly deleting several of his students’ projects too. He doesn’t find any bugs or malware, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not there; it just means that he’s not clever enough to find them. But he will! He just needs to work harder, that’s all. And between Shiro and his back, it’s not like he was going to sleep tonight anyway.

 

 

*

 

*

 

 

“Holt!” Piah calls as he clanks down the walkway towards the elevators the next morning, trying to convince himself that his vision isn’t greying out at the edges. “Thank you for fixing the printer! I had such a backlog of orders for prints, it was a nightmare. Did Elvis like how the new headache balm smelled? I told Lawah that I wasn’t sure about that spice combination, but she swore it smelled better than it looked…”

 

“Oh, uh, yeah, he did,” Matt says, who forgot to give Shiro the new jar of headache balm he got from Piah in exchange for fixing her printer. “He said it was very… scented.”

 

“So, I think the battery on my datapad is starting to go a little bit. I bought a replacement battery but I don’t know how to install it —” Piah starts.

 

Matt tries to smile at her, although it probably comes out the I’m Not a Slitheen in a Skin Suit variety. “Um, actually, I’m pretty busy — mid-year exams are coming up, so…”

 

“Oh,” Piah says, sounding surprised for some reason. “That’s fine! Your classes are going well, then?” She grins and leans forward, dropping her voice. “Have any good stories? I promise I won’t tell.”

 

“I do,” Matt says, slowly edging away, “and I would definitely tell them to you, but I have to go catch my bus.”

 

“Of course! Have a good day!” Piah calls after him as he retreats. 

 

He’s not telling her shit, of course, and he’s definitely not installing that new battery. He doesn’t know enough about Piah for her to be on his Approved Contacts List, and part of Operation: CONSTANT VIGILANCE is minimizing contact with any potential hostile agents who could be bribed, tricked, threatened, or persuaded to inform on him to Ulin (knowing Ulin, it’s probably threatened), and so Operation: Fix All His Neighbors’ Random Junk is going to have to be postponed for operational review until further notice. 

 

Sure, it means losing out on food, but his pantry is stuffed full of nonperishables from his grocery deliveries and his garden is seasonally varied so he always has something ready to eat, so he’ll be fine! Probably. Maybe. He’ll get another grocery delivery anyway. He has money, thanks to Allura’s untrustworthy machinations that mean all of his neighbors are spies until proven otherwise, and she’s said that she doesn’t want it back, so EVERYTHING IS FINE.

 

(Obviously Allura will eventually want something in return, but she knows that the only things he’s good at delivering on are sex, excited lectures about obscure physics topics, and various homemade bombs, and he already provides her with the first two and she’s got her own people for the third, so he has no idea what extra thing she’ll want from him, YAY, but as long as she doesn’t want to eat Cat it’s all good.)

 

Meas and Pesh are similarly under review for the Approved Contacts List, since they’re untrustworthy dumpling thieves and nobody ever suspects old women, they’re great for moving explosives through checkpoints, but PB-C pemme is only once a week and the aunties’ intricate pemme game requires a lot of research into ancient naval warfare from the era back when Quuduzh was just a fort on Oldtown Hill, and that’s something to DO, even if he forgets 75% of what he reads and he accidentally deleted his notes in the datapad purge.

 

Safety or dice-based roleplay games? That is the question, and he needs an answer. Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based roleplay games? Safety or dice-based —

 

“Good to see you’re feelin’ better,” Meas says as she stumps through the door, the conga line of various Grandkid Army Recruits staggering after her with the various foods and furniture that are essential parts of a traditional pemme campaign.

 

“How do you know that?” Matt asks as he reluctantly steps aside to let the Grandkid Army set up a sling chair for him too, complete with extra pillows for his back. Why would she care about his state of physical well-being? That’s very suspicious.

 

“You’re not laying in bed moaning,” Meas says. “That’s a clue.”

 

“You gone down to Waterway like I said?” Pesh asks, settling into her chair.

 

“No, I don’t need to,” Matt says. “See, I’m up and about just fine!” He waves his arms around to prove it, and immediately regrets it as his back makes its displeasure known.

 

“Mm,” Pesh says, clearly not believing him, and settles into her chair and imperiously waves for one of the smallest grandkids to carefully pour her a cup of tea. “Jung’s coming by soon when he’s back from visiting his daughter.”

 

“In two vargas,” Meas supplies.

 

“I was about to say that, you didn’t need to interrupt,” Pesh tells her.

 

“I don’t think we need Xoa Lo for this campaign anymore,” Matt says. “Or maybe Jung and I can switch in and out. Ibix and Xoa Lo are pretty redundant, they basically have the same stats.”

 

“Better game with four,” Pesh says.

 

“Well, I have stuff to do in two vargas anyways,” Matt says, even though his stuff to do is staring blankly at the potential lesson plans Eena sent him and try to coax his brain off the squeaky hamster wheel of procrastination. “And it requires quiet and concentration, so you can go play with Jung up on the rooftop when he gets home. You won’t miss me.”

 

“Yes we will,” Meas says, which is HIGHLY suspicious.

 

“Haven’t seen your woman around lately,” Pesh says. “Been, what, a month?”

 

“Something like that,” Matt says. Why is Pesh keeping track of Allura’s whereabouts?

 

“Bet you’re missing her,” Pesh says slyly. “Meas is missing her.”

 

“I am not, you old sack,” Meas snaps as Pesh cackles.

 

“No, I’m not,” Matt lies.

 

“She coming around soon?” Pesh asks.

 

“Maybe,” Matt says.

 

“Your man coming?” Pesh asks.

 

“No,” Matt says.

 

“You’re talkative today,” Meas says.

 

Why are they trying to extract information from him that Ulin should already know? _If_ they’re extracting information. If. He doesn’t know. That’s worse than if he did. Matt tries to smile to throw them off the scent, just in case. “Let’s just play.”

 

“That online game of yours is doing bad things to you,” Pesh says, scowling. “No conversation over pemme. That’s what this city is coming to. Blasters. Drugs. Online pemme. _Marriage_.”

 

“Marriage?” Matt asks.

 

“Foreign nonsense,” Pesh says. “When Meas’n I was young things, nobody was married. Now look at ‘em. Everybody’s running around having weddings. My son Asmi’s planning his wedding. He says they got an official form now down at the Population Department and everything,” she adds darkly. “Encouraging people to be legally stuck with each other. It isn’t right. The City Council should be ashamed of themselves.”

 

“Of all the reasons the City Council should be ashamed of themselves, I’m sure marriage licenses are pretty low on the list,” Matt says.

 

“Besides, foreign ain’t always bad, Pesh,” Meas says. "Holt's foreign.”

 

“ You planning to get married?” Pesh demands of Matt.

 

“Um… No?” Matt says, since any answer he gives is actionable information to Allura.

 

“Well, then,” Pesh says. “You’re foreign, but at least you’ve got some sense.”

 

“I got married,” Meas tells Matt. “Twice. Pesh didn’t come to either of the weddings, the stubborn old hag.”

 

“Never said you had any sense,” Pesh sniffs.  Meas lobs one of Matt’s bird dice at her, and Matt flinches hard.

 

“So, I’ve got some thoughts on how to deal with the supply chain problem,” Matt hints. “It has to do with sprouts —”

 

“Online pemme manners. Ain’t even going to ask about how the grandchildren are doing,” Pesh mutters. “Pashem’s got a cold, did you know that?”

 

“Oh, let the man be, Pesh,” Meas says. “Not every day can be a good one.”

 

“Are you kidding? I’m out of bed. This is a great day,” Matt says. “I’m just really excited about pemme.” 

 

His smile grows brittle as he watches Meas pour a tiny cup of good algae spirits, the kind that actually taste like something other than pure ethanol, and carefully dilutes it with syrup and crushed golden-berries, passing it to Pesh already puffing on her pipe before pouring herself a cup too. The aunties drink, most adults in Quuduzh drink a little, and it’s fine! That’s their choice. He made his, and it’s a good one, and he doesn’t regret it one bit.

 

“Okay!” Matt says brightly. “So — tiffe sprouts!”

 

 

*

 

*

 

 

**the white knight:** (6:58) I’m sorry that we made you upset.

**the white knight:** (6:58) I talked with Allura. She’ll tell Ulin to stop helping you.

**the white knight:** (6:59) I promise, it wasn’t anything big. Just a nudge here and there, and contingency plans in case of emergency.

**the white knight:** (6:59) You’d be safer with us on the Castle, but I understand why you want to live in Quuduzh. It’s just so far away if something happens. 

**the white knight:** (7:00) We’re not trying to run your life.

**the white knight:** (7:00) But we worry.

**the white knight:** (7:01) Less lately, though. You not drinking anymore… I can’t tell you how much of a relief it’s been.

 

**me, an intellectual:** (13:45) im not sorry 4 gettin angry @ u

**me, an intellectual:** (13:45) i told u i didnt want help n u did it anyway

**me, an intellectual:** (13:45) u were wrong

**me, an intellectual:** (13:45) n u need 2 stop doing it

**me, an intellectual:** (13:46) but im sorry 4 implying u r a burden

**me, an intellectual:** (13:46) ur not

**me, an intellectual:** (13:46) ur worth it shiro

**me, an intellectual:** (13:46) pls know that

 

 

*

 

 

Shiro might be sincere, but Matt knows Allura and Ulin, and they’re both lying liars who aren’t above lying to their friends if they can convince themselves it’s for the greater good, not that Ulin has any friends other than colleagues who want to get in on that sweet, sweet interrogation action.

 

But Matt’s reasonably sure that Shashis isn’t informing on him to Ulin, so xie’s on the Approved Contacts List until Matt’s back to  gardening shape and he can take care of his own damn beans. 

 

Well. Matt’s kind of sure Shashis isn’t informing on him. Maybe sure. 15% sure. 10%? Ulin came from the resistance, just like him, and the resistance used kids Shashis’s age all the time — not as fighters, not unless they were really desperate, but as package-carriers and message-runners and saboteurs and yes, informants, the street kid on Lanastadam who swept the bar where the Galra soldiers drank almost since she was big enough to hold the broom, giggling at their jokes and admiring their guns and their taste in music, befriending them, making them _trust_ her, little Ulin Le whose entire family had been massacred during the last uprising, barely nine and gleefully telling Matt which soldiers she wanted to kill first as she sat in his workshop and kicked her heels and watched him build nail bombs to plant on civilian train lines.

 

Okay, so Matt’s not sure about Shashis at all, 0%, BEEP BEEP DANGER DANGER, but he has a garden that’s only surviving because Shashis comes by every day to water it and if Matt shuts xir out then he gets to literally lay in bed and stare out at his balcony and watch the fruits (and vegetables) of his labor rot on the vine and that’s  **HIS FOOD! GOING! TO WASTE!!!!** so obviously that’s not acceptable.

 

He’ll just have to suck it up and watch Shashis very closely and not give out any sensitive information, whatever the fuck that means for him these days. He’s pretty sure that none of his students are secretly spies for the Galra ( _but what if they are, what if, what if—!_ ) and finding ways to kill Galra and their supporters is basically the only thing that Ulin cares about. The only information she’s going to get from Shashis is the proper way to make quality compost, which she can fucking choke on, so there.

 

“The real trick is getting carbon-nitrogen ratio right,” Matt tells Shashis from his balcony sling chair as Shashis enthusiastically cranks the handle on the multi-chamber compost turner that Matt built for himself after his next-door neighbor Sses made it loudly and profanity-abundantly clear that Cat alone was not enough to keep down the bugs that Matt’s open-air compost bin was attracting. “Do you remember why?”

 

“Tiny bugs,” Shashis says, panting.

 

“Close, sort of,” Matt says. “Composting microorganisms. Bacteria and fungi. Teeny tiny living things so small that we can’t see the individual ones with our eyes, although when there’s enough of them sometimes we can see them. The mold Gabar eats, that’s fungi. That load’s been in for… how long does it say on the board?”

 

Shashis glances at the writing board that Matt installed next to the turner so his Swiss cheese brain didn’t accidentally murder his compost. “Four weeks.”

 

“Right, so the mesophilic microorganisms — the kinda ehhhh-temperature phase ones — are all dead, and the thermophilic ones — the ones that like high heat, but not TOO high — are breaking down all the stuff we put in the turner four weeks ago. The carbon-nitrogen ratio is important because the microorganisms need the right amount of carbon and nitrogen to do their jobs,” Matt natters away, trying to ignore the way every square inch of his skin is twitching at the open balcony door.

 

“Are they sad when they die?” Shashis asks.

 

“What?” Matt asks, confused.

 

“The little orgasms,” Shashis says. “Are they sad when they die?”

 

“They’re micro- _organisms_ , not orgasms, those are totally different and you should NOT tell your mama or your gamma that I’m teaching you about orgasms because they’ll get really confused,” Matt says quickly. “And… um, no, I don’t think they’re sad. They don’t have brains, so as far as science knows, they don’t have emotions.”

 

“Does it hurt?” Shashis asks. Xie’s stopped turning, staring uncertainly at the apparent microorganism slaughterhouse that xie’s been complicit in maintaining.

 

“They don’t have nervous systems either,” Matt says. “The parts of our bodies that tell us when we’re hurting. So, no. It doesn’t hurt. They’re not sad. They just exist, and then they don’t.”

 

“It hurts when people die,” Shashis says.

 

“Sometimes,” Matt says quietly.

 

“My dadda died,” Shashis says, starting to crank the compost turner again. “He made me’n’Pashem and then he went to fight the Galra and he was really brave and then we got a message saying that he died because he got blown up in the Mnenmus.”

 

“My dad died too,” Matt says after a moment of hesitation because — well, it can’t hurt to tell Shashis this, right? Shashis isn’t spying on him. (Probably.) Just maybe, Shashis is safe. “He wasn’t a soldier, but he was brave. He left home, even though he didn’t have to, even though he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to come back or if he’d even survive at all, because he wanted to do something good.”

 

“Did he come home?” Shashis asks.

 

“No,” Matt says. “He didn’t.”

 

“It hurts when people are blown up,” Shashis informs him.

 

“Yeah,” Matt the ex-bombmaker says. “It does.”

 

“Mamma has a new man,” Shashis says. “But he’s not a dadda, he’s just a man, so he’s not staying. He made mamma a new baby and it’s going to be born in Qa so it’ll be a lucky rain baby.”

 

“Are you excited?” Matt asks.

 

Shashis shrugs.

 

“Yeah, I wasn’t very excited when my little sibling was born,” Matt says. “But being a big sibling is cool. You get to teach them all kinds of stuff.” And then you go to a different galaxy and they follow you and they become a hero and you become an alcoholic, but Shashis doesn’t need to know that part — and anyway, Matt isn’t an alcoholic anymore! That kind of cancels out some of the twenty years of breaking Pidge’s heart, right? “My little sibling was my best friend when I was young.”

 

“Are they still your best friend?” Shashis asks, sounding hopeful. Other than when xie’s tagging along with a contingent of the Grandkid Army, he’s never really seen Shashis with any other kids, Matt remembers.

 

“Uh… We talk,” Matt says. “But we don’t live in the same place anymore.”

 

“They should move to Quuduzh and live with you,” Shashis says. “It’s the best place in the galaxy and it’s got lumpis.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Matt says distractedly. Shashis is wearing blue shoes. They look so familiar. Did he see them in a shop? Maybe he was supposed to get a pair like that for Alric’s birthday present. Then he remembers: the baby’s foot on Xuuk, laying alone on the silent road, still in its lucky blue shoe.

 

He tries a smile. “How’s that compost looking?”

 

Shashis lifts the hatch on the compost turner and peers in, then recoils, wrinkling xir nose. “Stinky.”

 

“Awesome, that’s exactly what it needs to be,” Matt says.

 

“Is Cat going to have a rain baby too?” Shashis asks.

 

“Uh, I hope not,” Matt says, alarmed.

 

“Is she going to have a dry baby?” Shashis presses.

 

“She’s not having any babies at all,” Matt says. “…I think.” Has Cat been cavorting without him noticing?

 

“She’s fat,” Shashis says.

 

“That’s just because people feed her,” Matt hopes.

 

Shashis looks disappointed. “I want a baby Cat but mamma says they bite and the rain baby won’t be safe,” xie explains. “But Cat never bites so her babies won’t bite so I can have one and the rain baby will be okay.”

 

“Kittens,” Matt says automatically. “Baby cats are called kittens.” Shashis frowns at him, confused, so Matt hesitantly explains, “Cat isn’t just a name I made up. It’s a species of animal from a planet a long, long way from here. And baby cats are called kittens.”

 

“I want a kittens,” Shashis announces.

 

“Wouldn’t the real Cat get jealous?” Matt asks.

 

“Not if it’s her baby,” Shashis says. “Mammas love their babies,” although xie sounds doubtful.

 

“They do,” Matt says, and hopes it’s as true for Shashis as it was for him. “No matter how many of them they have, they love them all. Love doesn’t run out of room. It just grows bigger. Like a plant grows out of a seed,” he says, inspired.

 

Shashis looks unconvinced.

 

“And if Cat does have any babies, I’ll talk to your mamma,” Matt adds. That promise can’t hurt him, right?

 

“Mamma’ll say no,” Shashis predicts fatalistically.

 

“Then I’ll talk to your gamma,” Matt says.

 

Shashis thinks for a moment, then firmly tells Matt, “Blood promise.”

 

“You want a what?” Matt asks, alarmed.

 

“Blood promise,” Shashis insists. “You break it and your blood boils and you die.”

 

“How about a pinky promise?” Matt asks, holding out his pinky.

 

Shashis examines it critically. “Do you cut it off?”

 

“No,” Matt says, alarmed. “No maiming, no blood boiling. It just means you’re taking it seriously. See?” He cautiously reaches out for Shashis’s hand and crooks his pinky around xir’s, shaking it once. “There. Pinky promise.”

 

“Blood promise is better,” Shashis informs him as xie runs back to the compost turner. Xie really likes the compost turner.

 

“Maybe,” Matt says, sinking back into the sling chair. “But this is the best I can do.”

 

 

*

 

*

 

 

>CHAT CONTINUED: TEAM WE KNOW STRATEGY

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Can’t sleep?

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I noticed you were still online.

[schemethedream] yeah yay back pain

[schemethedream] sorry i missed tonights game i had an eve thing

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] It’s okay, we understand.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Revve wasn’t there either.

[schemethedream] is he ok?????

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I think so? He’s answering texts, at least.

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] He said that he was just busy too but I think Ote told him not to come.

[schemethedream] the bf?

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Yeah.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I don’t know what he told Revve, but he’s really convincing. He had me convinced for a long time. He seems… nice. I liked him. I thought he was good for Revve, at least at first.

[schemethedream] u never know what ppl r hiding

[schemethedream] ive known a lot of monsters n they dont usually look like it

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I don’t think Ote’s a monster. I think he’s just… I don’t know. Angry, maybe? He’s gone through some difficult things, he’s struggling, I know that, but that doesn’t mean he gets to take it out on Revve.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I wish there was something I could do other than just watch, but Revve won’t listen. We’ve been friends since I moved here — eight whole years, and he still won’t listen!

[schemethedream] thats rough

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] He knows we’d help him leave. I HOPE he knows — I’ve told him ten thousand times that if he needs money, a place to stay, anything, the PB-C is there for him. We all helped out when  Kiua’ui’i couldn’t make her rent, when Isnar was in the hospital, when Pa’Tema lost their mother… We look out for each other. Why doesn’t he understand that?!

[schemethedream] i dont know

[schemethedream] pride?

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I hate this. Watching Revve DO this to himself… I thought he was smarter than this.

[schemethedream] mb he loves ote

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] He does. And I think Ote actually loves him. That’s the worst part.

[schemethedream] theres always isnar n her knee hammer

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] That’s true!

[schemethedream] look its hard but — b patient

[schemethedream] ppl can change!

[schemethedream] even if it takes a long time

[schemethedream] revve will do th right thing

 

 

*

*

 

 

“Are your bitter beans ready for harvest?” Gabar asks in her soft therapist voice when she literally almost runs into him on the walkway as Matt reluctantly skulks out to check his mailbox downstairs. Did Shashis tell her about the beans? Or has Ssshhhd been reading his mind? “I was going to make qat for the bizit tonight, but it’s so much better with fresh bitter beans than dried ones. If you weren’t planning on bringing anything else, Ssshhhd and I can cook them up for you. I heard your back was troubling you.”

 

“Uh, yeah, I’m not feeling great,” Matt says with a pained smile, resisting the urge to yawn. He hasn’t been sleeping much lately. “So I won’t be at the bizit tonight. Sorry. And I threw all the beans in the dehydrator anyway,” and it’s not exactly a lie, because he’d been _planning_ to do it, dried beans keep better than fresh ones; he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

 

Gabar looks at him more closely, a gentle, nonjudgmental smile on her face. Matt wonders if Ssshhhd is reading his mind right now. “Auntie Meas said that you had stopped drinking as much.”

 

“I’m not drinking at all,” Matt says proudly. It can’t hurt to tell her that, right? It should be obvious anyway, since he’s not waking up in drainage ditches anymore.

 

“How are you doing?” Gabar asks.

 

“Um, fine,” Matt says, surprised. “I’m great. I’m lovin’ it!”

 

“I’m glad,” Gabar says. “It can be a very difficult process. I know some wonderful people at Waterway — there’s a woman there, Izitla’l —”

 

“Thanks, but I’m good,” Matt says. “I got this.”

 

“You found someone on your own?” Gabar asks, sounding doubtful.

 

“No, I mean _I_ got this. By myself,” Matt says. “I don’t need anyone from Waterway —” _invading my brain with telepathic worms_ “— uh, doing anything.”

 

Gabar frowns. “You’re traveling alone?”

 

“Traveling?” Matt asks, frowning.

 

“It’s a long voyage across the sea, and no one should have to journey alone,” Gabar says. “Alone, it can be very difficult to believe that you will ever find land.”

 

“Uh huh,” Matt says, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, I’m good at traveling alone by now. Besides, I’ve already found land! Right here,” he says, tapping his foot on the tiles for emphasis and immediately regretting it as the neuroma in his right leg grinds against the socket padding and he almost overbalances.

 

“If your back isn’t feeling well enough to go up to the bizit, come over for dinner sometime this week,” Gabar says. “Ssshhhd and I miss talking with you. It’s very interested in your thoughts about the housing lottery reforms. You have quite a wealth of experience, and I always make too much food for just myself.” She smiles, self-deprecating. “That’s what happens when you get used to cooking for many siblings, I suppose.”

 

Yeah, no thanks. Having a nosy brain worm poke around in his _experiences_ sounds roughly on par with grading L1 labs. Besides, Matt doesn’t have to be telepathic to know that Gabar is trying to bait him with her delicious egg drop soup, like she’s luring a pesky raccoon into a cage trap with wet cat food, and He Will Not Fall for It (Again)! Even if it does mean losing out on calories, he’s going to channel his inner wily garbage bandit and stay in the trash.

 

“When my back feels up to it,” Matt agrees. “Okay, I gotta go. I, uh, have some L1 labs to grade?”

 

Gabar smiles at him, carefully gentle and nonjudgmental, and lets him pass unmolested. It’s probably futile to lie to a telepath —that’s why they make good spies, and that’s why they’re the first people to be hunted down and killed when any military force moves in, whether it’s the Galra or the rebels — but Gabar has a code of medical ethics or something, and she’s said that Ssshhhd doesn’t read anyone’s mind if it can help it. 

 

(Of course, that is _exactly_ what a sneaky little worm spy would say, and Gabar has family. Family is a great leveraging tool, Ulin always goes for the family first, just like Matt taught her to. At least Gabar doesn’t have kids. Those are the worst. Does Ssshhhd have kids? Do telepathic symbiote worms even have family? Matt doesn’t know; he’s never bothered to find out. Maybe they just get grown in broth or something.)

 

But he didn’t exactly tell Gabar and her secret weapon a lie: Matt really does have L1 labs to grade, and his back really does hurt, and besides, he  can’t attend the bizit — he’s out of sunscreen, and the last time he tried hanging out on the roof without it he got a sunburn so bad that Shashis thought that he was molting. He’s not going to go out and roast like a brisket just so he can endure _small talk_ , and the bizits are 20% _small talk_ , 40% eating, and 40% pemme with the aunties, that last 80% of which he can do from the comfort of his own apartment if they would just! Stop! Eating! His! Dumplings!

 

“I said, what are you rolling for?” Pesh demands.

 

Matt blinks out of the teeth-grinding stupor of watching his hard-hoarded food disappear into the maws of people who aren’t him. “What?”

 

“The navy just sent a firebomb through your main sail, and your deck’s on fire,” Meas reminds him. “What are you going to do about it?”

 

“Um, good question,” Matt says distractedly. “Hey, I didn’t say you could eat all the dumplings! I said three each. That’s generous!”

 

“Online pemme manners,” Pesh sniffs, popping a fourth dumpling into her mouth, and they’ll go stale in a day, fine, but Matt’s eaten plenty of stale food before, as long as it doesn’t make him sick it’ll be okay, but it’s not okay, because Pesh is eating it, and that means he can’t! “Rude. The whole city —”

 

“— is full of rude foreigners getting married, I know,” Matt says impatiently. “That doesn’t mean you can steal my food.”

 

“Holt, the fire,” Meas reminds him as Pesh gives him an unimpressed look and takes a sip from the tiny glass of algae alcohol next to her, which doesn’t bother him one bit.

 

“Rolling to put it out, I guess,” Matt says distractedly, trying to subtly sneak the dumpling plate away from Pesh’s annoyingly long arms.

 

“Anything more specific?” Pesh asks pointedly.

 

“I’m rolling to put it out with water?” Matt tries, stuffing a dumpling into his mouth so that Pesh can’t get to it first.

 

“Rolling to put it out with water _how_?” Pesh asks.

 

“…Buckets?” Matt says through a mouthful of dumpling, and casts, the dice accidentally bouncing against the stack of resource cards and knocking them over.

 

“Roll for a bucket chain,” Pesh says, ignoring Meas’s indignant squawk as the cards tumble into her lap. “4 and a firebird. The bucket chain fails. Not surprising, since it’s a bucket chain on a big ship.” Matt really thought he’d be a better player now that he’s not sober. Maybe he just plain sucks at this. That’ll be their report to Ulin: target is sober but still bad at pemme. Ridicule with extreme prejudice. “Any better ideas, Meas?”

 

“Holt’s more careful with his dice casts, that’s my idea,” Meas mutters, reshuffling the faded cards.

 

“Is your woman coming around soon?” Pesh asks Matt as she waits for Meas to finish with the cards. “We could use a fourth player, now that you have a problem with Jung for some reason.”

 

“She might be,” Matt says.

 

“Talkative today too,” Meas says dryly as she sets the cards down and throws back her tiny glass of algae alcohol, then immediately starts pouring herself another. There’s an extra tiny glass on the tray, Matt notices. For Jung, obviously, unless they’re trying to send some kind of weird message. Are they?

 

“When’s Lara coming, then?” Pesh demands. 

 

Matt blinks and resists the urge to shake his head to clear it. “I don’t know,” he lies. “Her schedule’s unpredictable.”

 

“Don’t know what’s wrong with Jung all of a sudden,” Pesh grumbles. “He’s a solid player.”

 

“It’s not that,” Matt says.

 

“Night building’s a respectable profession if you take from the municipals,” Meas informs Matt, popping yet another fucking sweet cheese dumpling into her mouth and nearly spitting bits out onto the game table. “No need to be judgmental about it.”

 

“I’m not judgmental,” Matt says. “I don’t care if Jung night builds as long as he doesn’t ‘build’ any of my stuff.”

 

“Ha,” Pesh says sourly. “You’d never know it from the way you’ve been treating him. Rude! And you don’t even know when your own woman’s coming to visit. Don’t you care?”

 

“Why do _you_ care?” Matt asks suspiciously.

 

“We told you, better game with four, and your woman’s more’n decent,” Pesh says impatiently.

 

“Or we could bring in Piah,” Meas suggests. “She’s strategic enough.”

 

“Besides, she wants you to work on her datapad battery,” Pesh says. How the fuck does she know that? Except the aunties know everything about everyone — they’re always watching, always listening, nobody suspects two old women…

 

“You know what, actually, I think I’m pretty tired,” Matt says. “And my back is hurting. Ow. Ow.”

 

“You could lay down and play that way,” Meas points out, reaching for the dumpling plate again.

 

“No, I think I just want to sleep,” Matt says pointedly, and tries to hug the plate of his calorie-rich dumplings to his chest without looking like a parent desperately trying to shield their delicious babies. “Right now.”

 

“We’ll leave the tea set here, come back when you’re feelin’ better,” Meas says, equally pointedly.

 

“Just send Shashis to come get it,” Matt says. “I think I’ll be a while.”

 

The aunties don’t take the tiny glasses or the algae spirits with them when they go, Pesh still grumbling about online pemme manners and bad bizi incurred by ungenerous hosts. It’s totally fine, though! The algae spirits are a standard part of any Quabi’s tea set, it doesn’t mean anything, Matt’s not bothered by it, how easy it would be to just limp over and reach out and —

 

It’s almost evening, so it’s not that bad outside, especially in the shade. Nice opportunity to go sit in the squashy chair out on the balcony garden, far away from the tea table, and stare at his datapad and the L3 labs that he’s hypothetically supposed to be producing and in actuality is just hoping will appear under his pillow one night, like a gift from the Lesson Planning Fairy.

 

Maybe he could actually get Eena to T.A. L3 too. She’s said that she’s retaking it because she didn’t learn anything under Slom, but that’s probably an exaggeration, she’s super modest. Besides, she wants to be a professor, so it’ll be good experience for her, and has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he can’t fucking _think_ for some reason. He’s sober now so everything should be hunky-dory, but recently he’s been way more Dory than hunky, and he’s 100% talking about the fish. Maybe his brain machine broke after years of alcohol eroding all the parts. That stuff is very corrosive. And bad. And about 20 steps away. And bad.

 

But he’s got this. Survive! Adapt! Overcome! Exploit your T.A.!

 

It’s a whole hour before Shashis and a few other members of the Grandkid Army come to collect the tea things, the door suddenly whooshing open, making a startled Matt jump roughly five feet into the air and reach for his boot knife before he gets a fucking hold on himself. 

 

Answering the door isn’t always easy these days, and he finally got tired of the penny whistle renditions of “Furious Tootling in E Flat” whenever Shashis needed to get into the apartment to be his garden house elf, so he just gave Shashis the key code, but he’s starting to seriously regret that life choice, seeing as it wouldn’t take much to extract information from a seven-year-old. They wouldn’t even have to use force or intimidation; they could probably just use a really big lumpi.

 

“Whoah, hey, where are you going?” Matt asks when the Grandkid Army makes to march off with the tea tray and table but not the pemme set.

 

“Gamma said it’s their spare set and it should stay here for next time,” Tishis informs him.

 

“Nope, don’t need that either, bring it all back to your gammas,” Matt says.

 

Tishis shoots him a dirty look for making them carry more stuff, but too bad, this was their mission and they chose to accept it, and then the Grandkid Army departs, and Matt’s finally, wonderfully, safely alone, except for any listening devices that might be cleverly hidden in his apartment despite his best efforts to find them, but he’s got a signal jammer going 24/8 now, so ha! Take that, whoever probably isn’t spying on him but oh fuck, what if they are…!

 

“You know what, one more sweep can’t hurt,” Matt tells Cat, who’s currently in his lap. She thrashes her thick green tail and rubs insistently up against his hand, but he gently deposits her on her sunning stool next to his squashy chair instead of giving her the scritches she demands. Normally petting Cat is very soothing, but right now he just can’t seem to concentrate on it long enough to feel anything, much less soothed. “After all, safety first!”

 

 

*

 

 

He falls asleep that night. Barely. It’s the first time he’s slept in two days. There’s a road. Little Ulin Le is there in her stinking street kid clothes. Can’t give her anything nicer, any safe place to sleep. Can’t tip off anyone in this city that someone is caring for her, that anyone cares _about_ her at all. She hands him the tiny blue shoe. There’s a tiny foot inside. You left this behind, she tells him, grinning. We have to leave, this whole city is going to explode, Matt says, accepting the shoe. They’re collaborators. I put bombs in every basement. The shoe won’t fit in his pocket. It’s bigger now. It’s his foot, the one that had been blasted up on top of the tool cabinet somehow, mostly intact. He recognizes the scar on the ankle. It’s still in his lucky blue shoe. It’s the collaborators’ fault. It’s all the collaborators’ fault. Here, take these, Ulin says, and hands him more feet. They don’t fit in his pockets, so he puts them all into his bag instead. He has to get out of the city. It’s important. He’s going to kill them all. And then a werewolf chases him through a police station until he wakes up and it’s 4 in the morning and his back hurts and there’s no way he’s getting back to sleep, so he tries insomnia-watching _Leaf & Shoot_ on Pidge’s recommendation instead, but the fat little Olkari remind him too much of putting icepacks on Shiro’s penis, which is not an association he wants to encourage. Next time, he’s making Shiro bring the standard issue  adult icepacks.

 

He should work on the L3 lesson plans, but he rewatches more _My Hero Academia_ instead, gritty-eyed and promising himself that he’ll do his job as soon as his brain can produce anything other than kazoo noises — and then it’s 6 in the morning and his head is pounding and his eyes are blurring and he still can’t _think_ —

 

 

*

 

 

*

 

 

>CHAT CONTINUED: TEAM WE KNOW STRATEGY

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Three black eyes, two broken fingers.

[schemethedream] new black eyes?

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] No, just the old ones.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I guess that makes it better? I don’t know.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] He told us that he caught his fingers in a door.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Which is probably true.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] He just left out the part where Ote was the one slamming it on him.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I want to believe that Revve will leave eventually. I really, really do.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] But it’s been five years, and it’s just gotten worse. I think the only way he’ll leave is if Ote kills him.

[schemethedream] :(

[schemethedream] sorry. thats inadequate but i have no idea what 2 say

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] It’s okay. I don’t know what to say either.

[schemethedream] look i know frm experience that ppl can change big time

[schemethedream] i was a horrible alcoholic fr 20 yrs

[schemethedream] but 1 day i was like fuck this n i got sober

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I wasn’t going to say anything, but yeah, I guessed you had something going on.

[schemethedream] ????

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] A lot of your messages on this chat are kind of… garbled? Especially in the evenings.

[schemethedream] yep that sounds like me

[schemethedream] but th point is that its not me anymore

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] What made you stop?

[schemethedream] i got tired of hurting th ppl around me.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Have you ever heard of Dreamon?

[schemethedream] th stuff that makes u have lucid dreams?

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] Yeah.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] It’s supposed to just be for therapeutic purposes, but growing up, a lot of people in my neighborhood used it to escape… everything. Our home was falling apart, the only jobs were hotel staff or sex work and either way you had to deal with rude tourists who never tipped, but slap on a Dreamon patch and you could go anywhere you wanted.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I did that a lot between clients.

[schemethedream] im guessin u dont anymore

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] My little brother put on 2 and never woke up.

[schemethedream] im sorry

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I never figured out whether he meant to, you know?

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] He wasn’t doing well before that. Neither of us were. I actually kept using Dreamon for another four years after he died.

[schemethedream] what made u stop?

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I wanted to stop dreaming and start actually living.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I had to leave behind everyone I knew, because they all used it too.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] And now I get to watch Revve self-destruct just like them. And I kind of know why he might think that he deserves this — stuff I can’t tell you about, sorry

[schemethedream] its cool i get it

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] But it doesn’t make it better to know, because it doesn’t change anything. I know people can change — I changed, you changed — but it doesn’t mean Revve will.

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] It’s like everywhere you go… you can’t escape it. There’s always someone you can’t save.

 

 

*

 

*

 

 

“Hey, Piah,” Matt calls softly as he limps down the walkway, regretting every single step he takes. It’s a Bad Decision to do this — if Piah is informing on him, she’ll know now that he’s even more incapacitated and vulnerable than usual — but he hasn’t slept and he can’t think and he’s gone through every pill and salve and heating pad he has and he’s so tired of still being a throbbing knot of pain with a few human parts attached. “Can we talk?”

 

“Oh, of course,” Piah says, surprised, putting aside her sketchpad with the half-finished drawing of Rreee cuddling her two hatchlings. Piah likes to draw her neighbors, Matt remembers. He wonders how many drawings of him there are in there. “What’s going on?”

 

“Does your cousin Lawah make something like the headache balm, but for muscles?” Matt asks reluctantly. “Elvis said it really helped his headaches, and his get bad.”

 

Piah nods. “I think so! I can ask.”

 

“Thanks,” Matt says, and grudgingly adds, “And I’ll install your new datapad battery.”

 

“Oh, it’s alright, my friend Kijo from my devotion group did it. We meet every Thirdday evening, by the way, and we’re always open to newcomers,” Piah unsubtly hints. “The sacred texts aren’t meant to be interpreted alone, after all! ‘ Uanani’i is found in all places where we gather in her name’.” She winks. “And my group gathers with pastry.”

 

“Uh huh, yeah, that sounds great, but I have a work thing Thirdday evening,” Matt says, trying to inch away.

 

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Piah says sadly, then brightens. “But the Baths temple holds many devotion groups! I’m sure you can find one to fit your schedule. Sister Du is a very clever interpreter, she does Firstdays and Eighthdays —”

 

“Yep, I’ll look into it,” Matt says, fervently wishing that Pidge had chosen any other disguise than a priestess of his nosy neighbor’s religion. “Tell Lawah thanks. Does she want more vegetables?”

 

“Oh, her own garden is coming in, I’m sure she doesn’t need more,” Piah says, waving her hand dismissively. “Just help me with something later and it’ll be fine.”

 

“…Okay. I’ll owe you one,” Matt manages. Piah’s not so bad. It won’t hurt to owe anything to Piah. ( _Butwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatif—_ ) “So, uh, I gotta… go.”

 

“Remember, Sister Du!” Piah calls after him as he turns tail and escapes.

 

The muscle balm arrives that evening, couriered by Tishis, who demands one of the fresh lumpis from the Bakery box on his counter before she shoves the big jar at him and scurries off to extort someone else. Lawah was generous this time — the reused salted fish jar is filled almost to the brim with a thick goop that smells vaguely spicy when Matt sniffs it suspiciously. There’s a scribbled note attached to the jar with tape, too, in Piah’s distinctive looping handwriting.

…the note helpfully explains. Matt stares down at this gift-that’s-not-a-gift, this unpaid and unknown debt, yet another rope around his neck, and he almost starts laughing, because all that and he can’t even use what he traded a little bit of freedom away for. Massage hard into bad muscles? How is he supposed to massage anything into his own back without straining or twisting? There’s no one here to help him. He’s alone. Didn’t Piah know that?

 

He puts the useless balm on a shelf and takes his prostheses off and gets into bed and goes away to the nothing-place instead, or at least tries to. It comes on as accidents plenty of the time, but it’s been a long time since he’s tried to deliberately trigger it, and he’s almost forgotten the trick of it, how to let his soul drift like smoke right out of his body. Don’t tense. Don’t fight. Don’t move, just be moved. Don’t even wait for the pain to be over, because there’s no over, there’s no now and then to divide the time into, there’s no time at all, drown the alarm clocks, suffocate the bells, float free of the meat suit like a balloon snipped free of its sandbags, slip off to somewhere outside of time and space, just like Shiro does… 

 

But it doesn’t work. The one fucking time in twenty years that Matt’s actually wanted to go away without a little alcoholic help, it doesn’t work, or at least not well enough, and he spends the entire night half-here and half-not and trying to simultaneously think of nothing at all and think very specifically about how it’s just electricity, all this stupid pain in his back and hips, just his neurons having a firefight in his brain. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real…

 

 

*

 

 

_I love you, Matt, I love you, I promise I’ll find you —!_

 

 

*

 

 

*

 

 

“Good morning, professor,” Bi’o calls politely as Matt comes clanking through the classroom door.

 

“Yep, it technically is morning,” Matt says blearily. “Yay.”

 

“Rough night?” Banin asks cheekily. Matt squints at him. Why is Banin always so chipper early in the morning after a 20:00-3:00 shift dancing at the club? That’s very suspicious. He should be laying down somewhere with his feet up, not practically bouncing in his seat in a thermodynamics class at 8:00.

 

Matt shrugs, deliberately carelessly, just in case Banin’s a plant secretly gathering information about his state of mental and physical vulnerability. “Not a lot of sleep,” Matt tells Banin as he flips through his datapad, trying to find the lesson plan Eena was supposed to send him. “I got really into a paper on freefall, and before you know it — sun! Right there!”

 

“It is inconsiderate like that,” Sast says.

 

“I know, right? Super rude, they should really do something about that,” Matt says. Aha! Document shared by Eena, 7:54. Looks a little hastily thrown together but it’ll do. “Guess what we’re doing today?”

 

“Stellar spectral analysis,” Eeo volunteers.

 

“Oh, good, you guys do pay attention to me!” Matt says happily. That gets a little ripple of laughter through the room, and he hasn’t forgiven Allura for her interference and probably never will, but for a moment he’s so fucking grateful to her, that she forced open the door so he could be here with these people who wash dishes and chase after children and dance for seven hours straight and then still come here to delight at the sheer shining wonder of the universe that no amount of bloody little pettiness can ever quite dim. Even if 60% of them probably are plants and spies, he’s thankful for that.

 

“Right, SO, stars—” Matt starts, pulling his datapad stylus out of the bun he’s started tying his curls back into, but then falters. What was he going to say? Stars… stars do what? His students all look at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something, anything. Bueller? Focus. Breathe. Ignore the headache and backache and neuroma. He can do this! It’s just stellar spectral analysis, it’s just starlight, it’s not that complicated, he was learning about these when he was fifteen, the baby genius plopped down into a class full of college students who had no idea what to do with him. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

 

“Who can tell me what an emission spectrum is?” Matt asks.

 

“The spectrum of frequencies of electromagnetic radiation emitted by an atom or molecule when it goes from a high energy state to a lower energy state,” Bi’o recites.

 

“Correct!” Matt says, pointing at her with his datapad stylus like a little baton. “You get a prize, and the prize is KNOWLEDGE.”

 

His students laugh again, and Matt grins, slowly settling into the rhythm of lecturing, scribbling away at the holoscreen with one hand as he chugs tarry faculty lounge tea with the other. Teaching is just 30% knowledge and 70% dancing monkey, so dance, monkey, dance! He’s got this! It’s all good! He’s already had about four cups of stimulant tea already, and it probably shows! 

 

His students are picking up on his good mood, calling out questions and taking notes like they actually plan to read them later and suddenly somewhere up above their heads

he’s in a doorway hoping that the thick stone will protect him if the bomb sends the building crashing down on top of him _professor_ if it was one of his bombs there’s a second one about to go off any second now to catch the would-be rescuers coming to help the survivors _professor are you okay_ here they come neighbors collaborators enemies _what’s happening to him_ crouching in the ruins covered in brick dust he’ll fucking kill them if they come for him _no_ he’s not letting them take him alive _professor holt!_ he’ll kill them he’ll kill them he’ll kill them he’ll kill them all if they get any closer —

 

…and he’s back, and he looks out at his students’ confused faces and down at the sharp stylus in his hand and realizes that he might actually have hurt one of them if they’d been stupid enough to approach him — it doesn’t take much to do serious damage, he knows that from experience, and the stylus falls with a clatter from his numb hands as he begins to shake.

 

“Professor?” one of his students asks — Eeo, that’s Eeo. Matt can’t manage a yes, but he can manage a nod, and she smiles at him tentatively.

 

“Should we get someone?” Sast asks. 

 

Matt shakes his head, even though they probably should. The police, maybe. Shiro. Or just Ulin. She’d know what to do with him.

 

“You weren’t gone that long this time,” Banin offers. The few new transfers look terrified or confused, but most of his students just nod along, like this is normal for him, because it is. It _still_ is. He’s sober now. Why isn’t this any better? He’s supposed to be better. Everyone promised him he’d be better now.

 

“I think it was the pipes,” Eeo says. “That banging noise, they did that yesterday too. We’ll ask the caretakers to fix them.” Her tone is gentle, forgiving, and that’s so much worse than if she’d been scared.

 

“Class dismissed right fucking now,” Matt manages to croak out, and they nod, offer quiet goodbyes and file out without getting any closer to him. He manages to hold it together long enough for the door to close behind the last one before he collapses into his chair and bites down hard on his hand to keep from screaming, and nonsensically, the only thought that makes it through the STATICSTATICSTATIC is: _I’m so glad Anawaitshe wasn’t here_.

 

He pays for a cab to get home. 44b from the university to his building, that’s what he has to look forward to twice a day, because there’s no way he’s getting on a bus ever again, there’s no way he could be trusted to get on a bus ever again, not when everything is so sharp and clear these days, not with Ulin’s agents on every street corner and classroom, watching him, informing on him, not with a knife up every sleeve and bombs dropping from the sky — no, it’s not bombs, it’s just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pipes. Just the pi—

 

“Holt?” a soft voice says, and Matt looks up to see Gabar peering concernedly at him from the top of the stairs, a shopping bag on her arm. He’s in front of his apartment door. When did that happen?

 

He has to answer her, it’d be suspicious not to. “What?”

 

“…Ssshhhd and I are just back from Urbar’s, and were wondering if you’d like to come over for a late lunch,” Gabar says slowly. “I was going to make egg soup. It won’t take long.”

 

“No thanks,” Matt says, turning back to his door keypad. He can’t remember his own door code. Why can’t he remember his own fucking door code?

 

Gabar laughs. It sounds forced, like she’s talking to one of her clients — some skittish kid too young to even know the name of the planet they came from, drawing crayon pictures to try to explain to the immigration workers what happened to Mama. “We can make something else if you’re not in the mood for soup. A cold salad, maybe.”

 

“I mean no thanks to lunch,” Matt says.

 

“You don’t seem like you should be alone right now,” Gabar says.

 

“I’m fine,” Matt says, inwardly cursing his shaking fingers as he types in wrong code after wrong code.

 

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Gabar says.

 

“Why? Because you can read my mind anyway? Just pull the information out, whether or not I want you to?” Matt snaps, turning on her.

 

“Because we’re friends,” Gabar says.

 

“We’re not friends, Gabar,” Matt says, balling up his fists to try to stop the shaking. His tongue is starting to go numb, teeth buzzing. “We’re neighbors.”

 

“You’re _my_ friend,” Gabar says soothingly. “And even if you were a stranger, you’re hurting.”

 

“There are a lot of people out there who are hurting,” Matt says. Ulin’s spies on every street corner, in classroom and apartment building… “I don’t see you making this much effort for them.” 

 

“You live two doors down from us,” Gabar says.

 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Matt asks.

 

“Two doors down is close enough for Ssshhhd to hear you screaming through the walls at night,” Gabar says quietly. “I think we’re hearing you dream.”

 

“You’re listening to my mind,” Matt says, nauseous at the very thought, and it’s stupid to feel betrayed, it’s so stupid, of course she is, every classroom and apartment building, of course she doesn’t give a fuck that he doesn’t want this, it never matters what he wants, always pushed along by something bigger and stronger than himself…

 

“We’re _hearing_ your mind,” Gabar says. “We can choose not to listen. We can’t choose not to hear.” She half-smiles tiredly. “It’s very loud, living near you.”

 

“Who are you selling me out to?” Matt demands. “Is it Ulin? One of my people’s enemies?”

 

“I’m not selling you out to anyone,” Gabar says.

 

Matt grits his teeth and takes a step towards her, and an ugly little part of him is glad to see her visibly fight the urge to step back. “I don’t believe you.”

 

“I _was_ approached by someone. A Puigian. She was petite, very attractive,” Gabar says.

 

“That’s Ulin,” Matt says. Ulin isn’t bigger than him but she sure counts as stronger in her way, grief turned to silent blasters and bloody pliers, most monsters don’t look like monsters — a pretty young woman; a cheerful father who puts on his camp guard uniform every morning; a university professor shaking in a doorway, threatening his neighbors — and Matt steps back from Gabar so fast that he nearly trips over himself, turning back to the door keypad and punching in every number sequence he can think of. It’s not safe to be out in the open, out here with watching eyes and listening telepathic symbiote worms, he’s not safe to be around other people…

 

“I told her no,” Gabar says behind him, soft and soothing. _Managing_ him. “Everyone in this building did.”

 

“You’ve been reading everyone else’s mind too?” Matt says.

 

“I listen for danger. I warn people. I don’t always catch it, but sometimes I do,” Gabar says. “That’s what I can give to our community. That, and food, but everyone gives food.”

 

“Did you warn people about me?” Matt asks. 4-7-3-9, 4-3-7-9, 3-9-2-8-5, 4-3-9-7…

 

“No,” Gabar says.

 

“You should have,” Matt mutters. 4-9-3-7, 4-9-7-3, 7-4-9-3… His door beeps and he pushes it open to the refuge of his empty apartment, the one safe place in the world — except it’s not safe, Ulin could have planted bugs, he hasn’t found any but she could have, not safe here either, not safe anywhere, and especially not with Gabar…

 

“I’m not selling you out, Holt,” Gabar calls after him softly. “I just want a good night’s sleep.”

 

“Then buy some headphones,” Matt snaps, and slams the door shut in her face.

 

 

*

 

 

*

 

 

>CHAT CONTINUED: THE CABAL

[fuckyoubusn91] hey schemey what the fuck where have you been

[♡ALTNmice-snuggles♡] I think what Pa’Tema is TRYING to say is that we’ve missed you.

[fuckyoubusn91] and that ptau is strict about the attendance thing

[fuckyoubusn91] life happens, he gets that, but not showing up with no explanation — not good

[revvengines] Plus, we need your input on the roadwork project in the northeast — Ptau keeps throwing bureaucrats at us, and I keep rolling the worst scores! I need backup!

[schemethedream]  ✓ _seen 23:48_

 

 

*

 

 

**r u pidging me:** (11:02) can we do a vidcom call this weekend? i want to talk malware

 

**r u pidging me:** (11:15) maaaaaaaaaaaaatt

 

**r u pidging me:** (11:30) I’m assuming that you’re not answering me because you’re in class, not because you skipped class to get drunk

**r u pidging me:** (11:30) contact me when you’re home, okay?

 

 

*

 

 

**made of** ☆   **stuff:** (11:48) Remember: Port Silver, 14:00. I’ll message you when my shuttle arrives.

**made of** ☆   **stuff:** (11:48) I hope you’re prepared for muffins. Hunk assures me that my recipe is entirely adequate!

 

 

*

 

 

**unknown ID:** (12:39) This is Anawaitshe. Eena gave me your number. 

[contact added: **imma surVIvor** ]

**imma surVIvor:** (12:39) Will you be doing your office hours today? I have a lot of questions about yesterday’s lesson and the auto transcript was confusing.

 

 

*

 

 

10 steps from his bed to the door. 12 steps from his door to the stairs. 36 steps down the stairs to the building’s front door. 205 steps from his building’s front door to the store on the corner. 10 steps to the door. 12 steps from his door to the stairs. 36 steps down…

 

 

*

 

 

**imma surVIvor:** (14:05) Please?

 

 

*

 

 

He makes it to Anawaitshe Hour. Somehow, even though 95% of his brain could be described as “WELCOME TO HELL! WELCOME TO HELL! (10 Hour Version)”, he apparently manages to get it together enough to find a cab and pay the driver a stupid amount of money and go to work and teach two classes and then go to the library reading room where he holds his I-Don’t-Have-an-Office hours, although he has no memory of any of these events, so who knows, he could have been flown here by Mothman and spent the last six hours reciting his doctoral thesis to the potted plant in the faculty bathroom. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened to him in his lifetime. ( _Except no, it happened to someone else, someone else, someone else, someone else, someone else, someone else, someone else, someone else, someone—_ ) 

 

“I heard what happened in class yesterday,” Anawaitshe says as she slides into her seat across the table from him.

 

“Huh?” Matt says, very eloquently.

 

“There’s an unclear section in the auto transcript from yesterday. I asked Eena about it,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Eena wasn’t there,” Matt says, confused.

 

“Eena knows everything,” Anawaitshe points out.

 

“That is true,” Matt says.

 

“They should fix the pipes,” Anawaitshe says, pulling her cracked datapad out of her bag. “They were doing that in my mathematics class too.”

 

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Matt says. Anawaitshe tilts her head. “Not literally. I don’t do the whole god/s thing. It’s a figure of speech.”

 

“You have many of those,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“That’s me, purveyor of delicious phrases! Ha ha!” Matt says, a little manic. This Anawaitshe Hour has barely started and he’s already ready for it to end so he can go back to his not-really-safe-at-all apartment.

 

“Are you…” Anawaitshe pauses. “You’ve been different lately.”

 

“I’m sober,” Matt says. “Permanently. I quit. Forever. And ever.”

 

“We’ve noticed,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“You know, I thought I was super subtle about drinking before, but I guess it was pretty obvious,” Matt says.

 

“Yes,” Anawaitshe says. “There was a hangover counter. I believe there was betting involved on the final number.”

 

“Applied mathematics, excellent!” Matt says, too brightly. “I’m very proud. Do you think I could ask for a cut?”

 

“I don’t know who was running the betting pool,” Anawaitshe lies, since it was definitely Banin.

 

“You ain’t no snitch, gotcha,” Matt says.

 

“And how is this thing going? Quitting forever and ever?” Anawaitshe asks carefully, and she’s probably just asking to be polite — or to get information, he’s sure Ulin offered her a nice chunk of change — but fuck it. He’s so tired. Let her tell Ulin, let her tell Allura, let her tell Shiro, let her tell the whole fucking world, and on the extremely infinitesimal chance that she’s not informing on him, she probably won’t judge him either.

 

“Honestly?” Matt says and laughs a little wildly. “I hate it. I hate it so much. My back hurts, I’m exhausted, I’m jumpy, I couldn’t even fall asleep next to my sex person when he stayed over —”

 

“Your… what?” Anawaitshe asks.

 

“My sex person,” Matt says. “I told you, I have people. But he’s not my boyfriend or my partner and he’s definitely not my husband, so, sex person.”

 

“…I see,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“Don’t ever start drinking, Anawaitshe,” Matt says seriously. “Because some day you’ll have to stop, and I think that’s actually worse than being an alcoholic. It’s miserable. It’s absolutely fucking miserable.”

 

“I wasn’t planning to start, but thank you for the advice,” Anawaitshe says.

 

“But I can’t stop being sober, you know?” Matt says, sounding desperate even to his own ears. “I have to keep going. I don’t have a choice.”

 

“You have a choice,” Anawaitshe says quietly.

 

“That’s really not the messaging I need to hear right now,” Matt says tightly.

 

Anawaitshe tilts her head to the side again. She’s getting very good at this whole non-verbal, non-tendril communication thing. “Isn’t it better to have a choice in what happens to you?”

 

“Well, yeah — I mean, no — I mean, sometimes,” Matt fumbles. “Yes. Usually yes. But, okay, honesty hour, if I had to _choose_ between drinking and not drinking…” He laughs again, wild and bitter. “Addiction wins. It _always_ wins.”

 

“I would want a choice,” Anawaitshe says. “Even if it is between bad things, I would want one.”

 

“You say that now, but when you’re an alcoholic…” Matt says, then quickly: “Not that you are! Or will be! Don’t be an alcoholic. It’s bad. Very bad. Bad news bears. Although I’m not judging you if you are! But I don’t think you are? I guess there are people out there more subtle than I am —”

 

“I’m not,” Anawaitshe says. “Alcohol doesn’t work on my species.”

 

“Yeah, I really wish it didn’t work on my species either,” Matt says.

 

“Sometimes I do wish it worked on mine,” Anawaitshe says quietly.

 

“See, that’s a no good, very bad line of thinking,” Matt says, pointing at her with his stylus before he realizes what he’s doing and stuffs it back into his bag. What the fuck was he thinking, bringing that here? Although it’s not like he couldn’t turn the table into a weapon, smash her head against it, or the wall, or her heavy bag, or, or, or… “That’s the line of thinking that got me into this mess. ‘I wish there was something that could magically make this suck less’. But there isn’t. Things just suck, and you have to suck it up and live with it.”

 

“I try,” Anawaitshe says stiffly. “I try very hard.”

 

“No, I didn’t mean you specifically!” Matt says quickly. “I meant the you that really means the me. Me needs to suck it up. But I know you try really hard, and you’re improving a lot!” Choke her with her headscarf, blind her with his cup of hot tea, nothing he hasn’t done to people who deserved it, he thought they deserved it, repairing the world one dead Galra at a time, no matter how hard they begged for mercy… “Speaking of which, let’s make like a bad joke and get cracking on yesterday’s lesson! But no freaking out this time! Ha ha!”

 

“…Alright,” Anawaitshe says slowly.

 

“Cool. Yep. Awesome. Yay,” Matt says. No freaking out. No freaking out. Stupid library with its stupid no-Cat policy. No freaking out. “Okay, so, yesterday’s lesson —”

 

 

*

 

 

(In the very, very tiny part of his brain still sending Earth to Matt transmissions, he does actually realize that he doesn’t have a lot of valuable information that Ulin or anyone else would want, unless they were really interested in the Black Paladin’s thoughts re: spitroasting (answer: EXTREMELY FAVORABLE).

 

But as Shiro rightly pointed out, things can happen to the sex people of powerful politicians, and it’s at least half a day before Matt’s allies could be guaranteed to get to him, that’s long enough to vanish into the back of a truck, wondering who the traitor in his cell was and trying to formulate some useful lies that would at least take down some Galra sympathizers when he inevitably died under torture because they knew who he was, they had to, they knew they knew they knew Sh’ma Yisra’eil Adonai sorry Pidge I never really wanted to leave you they _knew_ , and then days later he found out that it was just a routine random grab —

 

Bad and naughty ex-spies get sent to black sites to atone for their sins, and if this business with Ulin has taught him anything, it’s that he was an idiot for trusting the aunties’ speech about bizi and he was an idiot for trusting Shiro and Allura. He was an idiot for trusting _anyone_.

 

And he doesn’t know he was so fucking stupid, except he does, A + L = TRUSTING DUMBASS, and the given value of A is alcohol and the given value of L is the “L”-word, the one that’s not “lesbian”, although he’ll substitute that for now, since even thinking the other word is as painful as licking a lit welding torch. He’s been stupidly in lesbian with Shiro, he allowed that seed to take root and grow, he tried to resurrect a little bit of the boy who died so many years ago — Shiro blinded him with lesbian and Matt blinded himself with rotgut and now for the first time in almost two decades, Matt can finally, truly see the world for what it is, and he’s so fucking terrified.)

 

 

*

 

 

As furious with Allura as he is for being a traitor to her sanctimonious and totally hypocritical crusade for consent, there’s no way that Matt is withdrawing the invitation for her to visit him for an entire weekend. He hasn’t seen her for more than a month, not since their awesome Kink Time at the beginning of Bem — they’ve barely even had time to vidcom chat for more than a few minutes here and there — and he misses her face and her body and her general Allura-ness and the fact that she can crush the skulls of her enemies in one hand, although he’s hoping that she’s going to leave her sense of adventure at home, since the most adventure he feels up to for this weekend is eating homemade baked goods in bed, which unfortunately probably necessitates a trip to the grocery store.

 

This weekend is going to be Muffin Time! and in order for it to be Muffin Time! there have to be Muffin Ingredients!, which Allura probably won’t bring since despite loving to cosplay as a plebe she still thinks of food as something that simply magically appears in one’s kitchen, all household management having been quietly taken care of by Coran, and since flour is used for more advanced cooking than “put it in the heater”, Matt definitely doesn’t have any. 

 

He’s NOT going to Urbar’s with its perpetual deafening throng of fellow shoppers, but the corner store is only 205 steps away from his apartment building; that’s allowable within the mission parameters of Operation: CONSTANT VIGILANCE. He’ll pop in, pop out, and clank back to safety and Cat, and Allura will get to make barely edible muffins that he’ll eat anyway and all will be well with the world, or at least as well as the world ever gets, which is to say not very well at all, but it’s a well that will include more calories for Matt so that’s something, right? 

 

Sure, the corner store was also his main liquor hookup, but he’s sober now, it’s no big deal, the only logical reason to avoid the store is that it’s potentially full of spies and assassins. Other than the fact that monsters walk around looking like people, there’s no reason to be afraid.

 

“Hey, whoah, can you stop here instead?” Matt asks, pointing to the store. The driver stops, Matt swipes his bank card for a whole 44-fucking-b, and painfully clambers out of the cab, ignoring the driver when xie asks if he wants a hand. 

 

The sidewalk is _way_ too crowded — there’s a whole six people in between him and the door! — but Matt takes a deep breath and tries to look as inconspicuous as a double amputee can look and hobbles forward, wishing he had a weapon on him other than his cane even as he knows that’s the worst idea in the history of ideas, didn’t he learn that yesterday?

 

“Hey, Professor Holt!” calls one of the teenage Xaraz loitering in front of the store.

 

“Hey,” Matt mutters, head down. And we’re walking, and we’re walking, and we’re walking… He squeezes past them in the narrow doorway, and the other Xaraz’s arm darts out — Matt flinches back hard, nearly tumbling backwards, but the girl is just holding the door open for him, the lucky bells above the door ringing gently.

 

“Thanks,” Matt mumbles, heart pounding, and hurries inside.

 

The store is mercifully mostly empty, just an older Xaraz and a tired-looking Rreee with her two hatchlings peeking out of her pouch, peering wide-eyed at the cramped aisles and mountains of multicolored packaging. It’s not an ideal location — less exposed than the street, sure, but it’s easy to get trapped in narrow spaces like this, hand-to-hand with the owner slumped bloody in the corner, caught by a stray blaster round as Matt desperately fought for his life, watching arterial blood splatter onto the pink cereal packages… But it’s fine, he’s in Quuduzh, the chances of a knife fight in this store are probably low-ish, so he’s got this! Get in, find the flour, get out. Easy peasy lemon squeezey! Don’t think about the rack of liquor bottles in the corner. Don’t think about them. Don’t think about them. Don’t think about them. In, flour, out. Don’t think. He’s got this! Don’t think…

 

“Flour, flour, flour, flour, flour, flour, flour, flour,” Matt mutters, a manic little mantra as he scans the shelves looking for baking stuff. Rreee looks at him askance, but he keeps mumbling to himself. Did he already look on this shelf? He thinks he already looked on this shelf, but he doesn’t remember any of what he saw. He can’t fucking _think_ — but that’s okay, that’s what keeps him safe, Not Thinking about any of it —

 

“Oh, are you looking for flour?” a cheerful young voice behind him asks, and he whirls and smacks right into —

 

Cold. Squirming. Slimy.

 

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” she says, her clammy tentacles reaching out to steady him so he doesn’t go crashing to the floor, wrapping around his frozen arms and torso. He can feel the coiled strength within them. “Are you okay?” 

 

Matt nods mutely.

 

“Oh, good,” she says, nervously wiping a few of her slick tentacles off on her bright blue employee smock. It’s just a stress response, Matt knows. Fear. Anger. Arousal. Any heightened emotion, especially in juveniles. He did research on her species, after the camp. She must be a new hire. He’s never seen her here before. There are barely any of them here in The Baths. “Um. You were looking for flour?”

 

Matt nods again, voice lost to the static roaring through his brain.

 

“It’s in the green aisle,” she says, her cheerful tone creeping back in. “What are you making? We have a few different kinds and they’re all good for different things. If it’s sweet, you’ll want tiffe flour, it’s light enough that it won’t have a nutty aftertaste unless that’s what you’re going for, in which case you’ll want fisi. Oh, but if you’re sensitive to grain, rice flour works! Although personally, I think the brand that we carry isn’t one of the better ones — don’t tell my boss I said that!!!! — so unless you have an allergy or you really want the rice taste I’d stick to one of the other flours. If you have a recipe, obviously, work from that, but if you don’t, I’m kind of an amateur baker and everyone says that my baked goods are great so I’m probably trustworthy? What are you making? Um, are you… Are you okay? Sir? Sir?”

 

“…Excuse me,” Matt hears his voice tell the Ilinni girl, and then his legs walk to the rack in the corner and his numb hands pick the first bottle of algae spirits up that he sees and unscrew the cap and then he drinks a fourth of the bottle right there in the store, and it doesn’t feel like failure. It feels like relief, like his hearing his parents’ voices again, like Cat curled up warm and rumbling in his lap. It feels like coming home.

 

 

*

 

 

He returns to consciousness as a slow collection of sensations: first the throbbing in his head, then the stinging in his palms and on his chin, the smell of alcohol and vomit and blood and dirt and the wet grass that’s sticking to his face and poking through his clothes, the distant shouts and screams —

 

Matt jolts fully awake, trying to scramble up from where he’s laying sprawled out on the ground even as he reaches for a blaster he doesn’t carry anymore, ruthlessly clamping down on the nausea that roils through him at the movement because so what if he throws up all over himself in the middle of a firefight, it’s better to be gross than dead, and then the rest of his brain reboots from bluescreen and he recognizes the familiar trees and blue-green grass of the district park, the woman sitting on one of the enormous tree roots nearby and the fury in her ice-chip eyes.

 

“Well, this looks bad,” Matt croaks.

 

“Yes, it does,” Allura says, coldly.

 

Matt flops back down onto the ground, staring wordlessly at the searing blue sky above him before he lifts his hands up to examine them. They’re flaked with blood, pieces of gravel and glass still embedded in the flesh of his palms, and when he touches his chin, he feels the rough beginnings of a truly epic scab.

 

“I guess I fell?” Matt asks.

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Allura says flatly. “I didn’t find you until this morning.”

 

“I guess that explains why you’re not in the mood for first aid,” Matt says. “Do you know where I was last night?”

 

“No, I don’t,” Allura says. “Nor do I know where you were yesterday, or the night before that.”

 

“Well, yesterday I was at home feeling proud of myself,” Matt says dully.

 

“That was the day before yesterday,” Allura says tightly. “You’ve been missing for two days.”

 

“…Fuck,” Matt says quietly.

 

“Well, I don’t know if _that_ happened. Do you?” Allura asks, because she’s apparently angry enough today to be really fucking cruel.

 

“No, I guess I don’t, although nothing’s sticky and/or hurting and I don’t taste anything weird, so probably not,” Matt says. “Thanks for trying to passive-aggressively prod me into a panic attack, though.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Allura says. “Shiro told the university that you were at home and too ill to come to class, by the way, even though I told him he shouldn’t make excuses on your behalf. Your T.A. seemed to know that he was lying, but she went along with it too. As I suspect she has many times.”

 

“Yeah, she has,” Matt says. “Eena’s awesome.”

 

“Debatable, if she continues to shield you from the consequences of _this_ ,” Allura says. “You don’t deserve her.” 

 

“Probably, but I’m basically the only professor in the department who treats her like a person and not a pest because she’s Xaraz and apparently they ‘overpopulate’ or whatever the fuck,” Matt says humorlessly. “So yeah, I’m not perfect, but at least I’ll actually teach her something.”

 

“I doubt you’re teaching anyone anything these days, other than providing a live demonstration on how to kill yourself by degrees,” Allura snaps.

 

“I told you before, I’m not trying to kill myself,” Matt says. “I don’t want to die.”

 

“Well, you don’t seem to want to live either,” Allura says.

 

“You go through what I did and see how easy living is afterwards,” Matt spits. “Until then, don’t you dare fucking lecture me.”

 

“You’re not the only person in the galaxy who’s been hurt,” Allura says. “It doesn’t give you the right to hurt others because of it, but so far you’ve been doing a _magnificent_ job of that.”

 

“Yeah, well, we both know that I like hurting people,” Matt says. “Shiro especially. You knew _exactly_ what you were getting from the very beginning. If you don’t want someone like me in your life, you’re free to go.”

 

“Sometimes I think I should,” Allura says coldly. “I certainly see why Pidge did.”

 

“Okay, that’s just cruel,” Matt says.

 

“As we both know, the truth often is,” Allura says. “And indulging you hasn’t done anything but made you worse. I’m tired of making your excuses.”

 

“Then leave,” Matt snaps. “If you want me to beg for you to stay, too fucking bad, because I’m not going to bow and scrape to anyone, least of all _you,_ Princess. Leave and feel superior or stay and shut up, I don’t care, just fucking decide.”

 

“You were _gone_ , Matt,” Allura says suddenly, and for the first time he notices how grey she looks today, her colors shifted washed-out and weary; how her leggings are stained a foul-looking brown, like she’d been wading in the sludgy parts of the Quu where the bodies tend to wash up. “I was down in the street yelling at your balcony for half a varga before one of your neighbors let me into the building. I thought I was going to have to pick the lock on your apartment, but the door was just wide open. No note, no message, just dead air when I tried to vidcom you. I checked the roof, knocked on every door in your building; no one knew where you’d gone, and then I saw that child playing with Cat, and I thought — you would have never left her behind unless something had gone horribly wrong. That’s when I called Shiro.”

 

“You — what, you thought I’d been kidnapped?” Matt asks.

 

“Among other things,” Allura says, and doesn’t elaborate further.

 

“So how’d you find me?” Matt asks.

 

“A Xaraz came up to me on the street and told me that the Hive had found you,” Allura says. “Apparently they’d heard you were missing and were looking for you too.”

 

“Oh,” Matt says flatly. “Great.”

 

“Shiro has been searching the Teardrop, but I called him and he’s on his way here now,” Allura continues.

 

“Can you tell him not to come?” Matt asks.

 

“No,” Allura says, glaring. “I’m not going to do that. You get to look him in the eye when you explain why you did this.”

 

“Because this is around the time of year when I got captured by violent imperialist aliens and separated from my dad and sent to a labor camp alone where I was starved and beaten and raped and starved some more and I thought I was going to die there and I never did see my dad alive again, and that’s _before_ all the shit I’ve seen and done and had done to me during this fucking war, and I apparently can’t deal with any of that without chemical help that’s going to kill me someday,” Matt says flatly. “You really want me to tell Shiro all of that? Really? Cause he was the one who sent me there, and when he escaped the Galra he didn’t come back for me. He didn’t even _try_.”

 

“I thought you’d —” Allura starts.

 

“What, forgiven him?” Matt says. “Yeah, mostly I have. I know there was no possible way that we could have stayed together — I would have died in the Arena, and Haggar would have never thrown someone like him away to be worked to death in some camp. I know that he saved my life and most of the time I’m kind of grateful, but if Pidge hadn’t looked for me, he would have just told himself that I was dead and tried to forget about it. And I get that he was trying to be the Black Paladin while he had one foot in the grave and having to face me then might have sent him toppling right into it, I get that he was barely holding on, but it doesn’t change the fact that he sacrificed me for the rest of the galaxy and I’m pretty fucking broken because of it. Hence the last two days.”

 

Allura’s quiet for a moment, then stands up, reaching down to help him up before seemingly remembering that Matt’s hands are full of glass and rocks that she didn’t bother to pick out, although who knows, maybe he would have been conscious enough to attack anyone who tried to touch him. Matt tries to push himself off the ground instead, but lack of real knees to roll onto means that he only grinds the glass and rock into his hands further, and he’s humiliatingly close to tears before Allura reaches down and hauls him up around the armpits instead, catching his weight as he stands up and immediately almost collapses.

 

“Are you going to tell Shiro all that?” she asks as she helps him over to a nearby bench.

 

“Of course not,” Matt says, easing himself down onto the seat and trying to blink away the resulting whirl of dizziness. “I mean, I probably would have if he’d found me while I was still smashed, so maybe it’s a good thing that it took you this long. I’ll just say that Squiggly Time is hard and I got everyone’s hopes up for no reason but it’s not his fault. He’s not going to believe me, but… it’s something, and hopefully he won’t yell at me or consider eating his own bayard. Did you tell Pidge about my twenty-nine days of sobriety?”

 

“No,” Allura says. “I really did think you were going to succeed this time, but… I didn’t tell Pidge.”

 

“That’s something too, I guess,” Matt says.

 

“You’re going to have to see a doctor,” Allura says, nodding towards his hands. “The gravel seems mostly superficial, but some of the glass is too deep for me to extract at home and I imagine some of those cuts are contaminated. My guess is that you dropped a bottle as you fell and tried to catch yourself, landed on the shards.”

 

“Yeah, that does sound like me,” Matt says glumly. “You can’t both go with me, you know.”

 

“I don’t seem to remember Waterway having that policy last time we were there,” Allura says.

 

“Okay, I’ll revise that: I don’t want you to both be there,” Matt says. “And I’d say you owe me one when it comes to respecting my wishes.”

 

“I’m not sure that having him be alone right now is such a terribly good idea,” Allura says.

 

“Mm, yeah, you’re probably right,” Matt says, and thinks for a moment (or at least _tries_ to think; fuck, this hangover is one for the books). “Can you check my belt pocket, see if my vidcom is still there?”

 

“It’s rather… damp, but yes,” Allura says, sniffing suspiciously at it and immediately recoiling.

 

“Oh, good, I’ve already lost five of those, I don’t want to have to buy another one,” Matt says. “Can you call Auntie Meas? She’s under my contacts.”

 

Allura raises and eyebrow, but punches it in as requested, and frowns as Matt’s call in process tone starts up. “Is this… Is this you harmonizing with Cat?”

 

“Yep,” Matt says proudly, and waves a little as Meas’s face pops up on his screen. “Auntie! I’m not dead!”

 

“I can see that,” Meas says dryly. “What’d you do to your hand?”

 

“Got really drunk, fell on some glass, need to go to the clinic to get it pulled out and probably get a shot of something so I don’t die of infection,” Matt says. “Lara’s coming with me, but Elvis can’t. Can he hang out with you for a few varga so he’s not alone and worrying?”

 

Meas considers this. “Got some furniture that needs moving.”

 

“Manual labor, perfect,” Matt says. “Get him sweaty and distracted. He doesn’t have a keycard or anything but someone can probably let him in, they all know him.”

 

Objectively, Matt knows that it’s not a long walk to the Waterway Clinic, but every step is a fresh agony. He definitely twisted something in his lower back — probably when he fell, but who knows what he’s been doing for the last two days — and there’s an ominous raw feeling on the end of his right stump where the neuroma is, plus a few dents and an unhappy grinding noise in his right knee. 

 

He built these prostheses to take a lot of abuse and they have, but one day they’ll hand in their resignation, and he’ll be drunk in a ditch somewhere with only one leg and anyone could do anything to him, no one would stop them — but that’s the great thing about alcohol, right? He’ll be one-legged and defenseless and no one will help him when he’s attacked, but no matter what happens, he just won’t fucking _care_.

 

He does hope he didn’t lose the Cat cane, though. It was a nice gift.

 

The clinic isn’t that busy when they arrive, and they’re ushered into an exam room within minutes of finishing the intake paperwork.

 

“Hey, Zirahbar,” Matt says cheerfully as the nurse comes in the door, then explains when Allura looks at them askance: “I’m here a lot.”

 

“Alright, Holt, what is it today?” Zirahbar asks, snapping on a pair of gloves.

 

“The usual,” Matt says, smiling winningly.

 

“Fluids, wound care, booster shot, and an STI scan?” Zirahbar asks dryly.

 

“It’s almost like you know me,” Matt says. “And something for nausea if you have it. It looks like you just cleaned in here.”

 

Allura scowls.

 

“This is Lara. Lara thinks I don’t deserve any meds _or_ fluids,” Matt informs Zirahbar. “Lara wants you to just pull the glass and let me throw up in the trash can.”

 

“Lara thinks that one should experience the consequences of one’s actions,” Allura snaps.

 

“Oh, trust me, that’ll happen once the meds wear off,” Matt says. “But right now I’m just trying not to experience the consequences of my actions all over their floor.”

 

“And our custodial staff thanks you for it,” Zirahbar says as xie stabs him with an alarmingly big syringe, which Matt instantly forgives as a blissful lack of vomit screaming washes through his veins. “Is it just your hands and forearms, or did you injure something else too?”

 

“Don’t know,” Matt says, presenting his hands for Zirahbar’s eagle-eyed inspection. “No giant head bumps or blood anywhere else.”

 

“Lie down,” Zirahbar orders, and Matt complies, staring up at the ceiling mosaic while Zirahbar starts up the trauma scan, a wash of bright lime-green light rushing down his body that leaves him blinking away stars. “Mm. No concussion this time, but you do have glass and some abrasions on your legs.”

 

“The no concussion part is nice, I need my brain for things,” Matt says, trying to struggle back up to sitting without using his hands while Allura sits and glares and does nothing to help. “And this way I’ll be out of your hair faster. Or, uh, your filaments.”

 

“Pretty presumptuous to think you’ll ever get in ‘em in the first place,” Zirahbar says dryly.

 

“Totally non-sexual idiom, I swear,” Matt says earnestly as Zirahbar approaches with the tweezers, although xie does wait until he nods to grab his left hand and start yanking things out, in deference to the time that he accidentally punched a nurse who touched him when he wasn’t expecting it. That’d been fun — first time he’d ever gotten chemically sedated! Although certainly not the last. His file is definitely flagged by this point.

 

It’s not he comes in with the _intention_ of being a violent asshole. Most of the time he’s great — or, well, not great, but okay-ish if you don’t mind bodily fluids and bad jokes, and if you can’t handle those, why are you a nurse in the first place? Drinking sets him free from time and space, that’s the _point_ , and mostly he’s just a danger to himself, but sometimes getting blissfully unglued means instinctively attacking someone his brain decides is a threat, or so he’s been told by the staff here, the cops in two different districts, and the bartender at that one bar he’s permanently banned from. It’s a good thing that Quuduzh’s free clinics don’t have a zero tolerance “one strike and we never treat you again” policy. If they did, he’d definitely be dead.

 

Most of the biggest chunks of glass had already fallen out on the trip from the park to the clinic, Allura picking up every bloody piece so no one would step on them, and the few remaining come out quickly, and then it’s just the little bits embedded too deep to tweeze out. He didn’t ask for any painkillers — he never does — and gentle whirr of the suction tool Zirahbar uses to pull the small shards out might as well be a jet engine, the sound throbbing through his eyeballs, but Allura doesn’t look too inclined to hunt down a pair of earplugs, so Matt just stares at the ceiling mosaic instead, trying (and mostly succeeding!) not to shudder at Zirahbar’s hands on his skin.

 

The glass comes out and the booster shot and fluids go in, a quick prick to his arm and a sudden salty taste in his mouth. He also tries not to shudder at that, but he definitely doesn’t succeed. 

 

Zirahbar is especially cautious as she gets him to take off his pants and then his prostheses, giving him a modesty sheet that he summarily ignores so he can watch her like a laser-guided hawk to make sure there’s no funny business going on down there, not that there ever is with Zirahbar, but you just don’t know, do you? But all she does is clean the abrasions, muttering about bad prostheses the entire time, and slap thick second skin bandages on them.

 

He doesn’t feel odd when Zirahbar brings out the bioscanner in front of Allura to run a quick STI scan. He doesn’t. There’s no expectation of fidelity between the three of them, no rules but communication and getting tested enough that he doesn’t give them a space junk yuck — one of the few medical things other than leg checks that he religiously does, since he’s been in Quuduzh less than a year and he’s already gotten a yuck on two separate occasions, although from who he has no idea and Doesn’t Think About.

 

Everything’s negative this time. That’s nice.

 

“Alright, you’re ready to go,” Zirahbar says, spraying a layer of liquid bandage over his hands and arms and popping the needle out after a nod from him. “Don’t touch anything until this dries and don’t wash your hands for a few varga afterwards. Rest, water, eat what you can keep down, keep a close eye on those abrasions. If you have to drink, don’t get drunk.”

 

“Mm,” Matt says in vague agreement, even though they both know he’s going to do it anyway.

 

“If you want to get on the waiting list for counselors here, I’d do it today,” Zirahbar says. “A lot of people drop out mid-year. It’d only be about two weeks before we could get you in to see someone.”

 

“Thanks but no thanks,” Matt says, and Zirahbar sighs the long-suffering sigh of nurses everywhere and hustles them out.

 

“They can’t possibly just keep doing this,” Allura mutters as Matt hobbles towards freedom.

 

“They kind of have to, it’s in the city charter,” Matt says. “Unless they decide I’m too much of a threat to staff, which they can do. If that happens I’ll just patch myself up at home.”

 

“ _Threat_?” Allura asks.

 

“Did I not tell you about the time I tried to bite one of the orderlies?” Matt asks.

 

“No, you most certainly did not,” Allura says flatly.

 

“He was big and leaning over me for something and I panicked,” Matt explains. “I didn’t do it for _fun_. And I didn’t actually bite him!”

 

“Oh, well, that’s alright,” Allura says. “Knowing that you were prevented from doing what you were trying to do certainly cancels out the fact that you were trying to do it.”

 

“Sarcasm is lost on the hungover,” Matt says sagely as they push through the main doors and he immediately shrinks back at the awful very bad no good sunlight. “I’m on a 10-second delay and everything sounds like raptor screeching anyway.”

 

“I’ll endeavor to screech a little louder, then,” Allura says. “And I’m quite happy to repeat myself.”

 

“Oh, I know,” Matt mutters. “Look, I’m sorry I freaked you guys out.”

 

“Apology not accepted, because ‘sorry’ means you’ll try not to do it again and I know you will do it again,” Allura says tightly. “You won’t even try not to.”

 

“…Wow,” Matt says. “Okay. Fine.” He flags down a bubble cab, the see-through sphere gliding to a stop at the curb. It’s dry season, and it’s back to electric propulsion while the suction-footed mulos that pull the cabs in the wet season freeload in their stables. “Do you want a separate cab? I’m not paying for it.”

 

“No,” Allura says curtly.

 

“We’re making a stop at the store, I need to stock up,” Matt warns her as he climbs into the cab.

 

“On what?” Allura asks, climbing in after him.

 

“What do you think?” Matt asks. 

 

“Unbelievable,” Allura mutters, settling herself beside him.

 

“That’s me, a total freak of nature and science,” Matt says, and tells the driver, “Moundalley Street, corner of Water Way.”

 

“You could at least do us the courtesy of waiting until we’re gone,” Allura says. “If not for me, then for Shiro.”

 

“No, I can’t,” Matt says. “Besides, it’s Squiggly Time. You guys should clear out of here. Last year was bad enough for him, and I don’t know what I’ll say this year. It’s been a rough month for me.”

 

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be in this city anymore,” Allura says.

 

“Hey, I haven’t gotten mugged once, and the smell’s not that bad once you get used to it,” Matt protests.

 

“Maybe the best course of action would be for you to move to a place where you’d experience more… consequences,” Allura continues.

 

“ _Consequences_ ,” Matt says. “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

 

“Living somewhere where they’ll keep fixing your mistakes doesn’t help you stop,” Allura says. 

 

“Great,” Matt says. “I don’t want to stop.”

 

“You _did_ ,” Allura says, frustrated. “You were so proud of yourself. We were so proud of you. What changed?”

 

“I remembered what it was like to be sober,” Matt says flatly. “And we’re here.”

 

Allura peers out the cab’s window. “This isn’t your building.”

 

“No, it’s the corner store where I pick up my special groceries,” Matt says. “I need to restock. Want to come in?”

 

“No,” Allura snaps.

 

“Suit yourself,” Matt says, and somehow manages to get himself out of the cab and into the store without the Cat cane or Allura’s steadying arm, but when he emerges from the store, 100b poorer but a whole lot richer in liquid mental health, he discovers Allura standing on the sidewalk alone, no bubble cab in sight.

 

“That was just petty,” Matt says.

 

“I didn’t think the driver should have to wait for you,” Allura says.

 

A big part of Matt wants to take out one of his bottles of algae alcohol and start downing it right in front of her, just to make a point, but an even bigger part of him knows that that’s a heckin bad idea, so he just shrugs and starts towards his building, even though walking has by now progressed from agonizing to excruciating. He has a lot of horizontal drinking in his future, that’s for sure.

 

“We won’t pull Ulin out — she’s doing other work here for us — but we’ll pull her off you,” Allura says as they walk.

 

“The sooner the better,” Matt says.

 

“You won’t get any further help from us,” Allura says.

 

“Good. I don’t want it,” Matt says.

 

“No help with the administration,” Allura says. “No financial assistance. No legal assistance. No political back-channeling to get you out of trouble. Shiro was loathe to do it, but I held firm. You’ll face the consequences of your actions.”

 

“I’m not a child,” Matt says. “I’ve been facing the consequences of my actions just fine on my own for a long time before you two came around.”

 

They reach his building and he fumbles out his keycard, and when they step into the green-tiled vestibule, Shashis is there, kicking a ball at the wall with the fury of a really tiny person scorned.

 

“Auntie and Elvis’re in your apartment,” Shashis informs them without looking up.

 

“Uh, why?” Matt asks, sudden terrible visions of Shiro rearranging all the furniture in his apartment foxtrotting through his head, but Shashis just shrugs and returns to beating up the wall. He briefly thinks about asking xir what’s wrong, but he already knows the answer — cousin Asmi — and it’s not like Matt can do anything about it, and besides, he’s got some drinking to do, and talking to lonely kids takes up the time that he could be using for that instead. If Shashis needs a friendly ear, xie should go bother Gabar.

 

He really hopes Gabar isn’t around right now. Ssshhd’s definitely told her about Matt’s stupid sobrietyfest, and he doesn’t feel like handling that level of gentle radiating disappointment without some liquid radiation shielding.

 

The door to his apartment is open when he clanks up to the landing, and he has a brief brain zap of panic before he steps through and sees Shiro and Meas settled at his kitchen table for what looks like the world’s most awkward tea party, and then Shiro looks up and surges forward, arms outstretched and something wild and terrible in his face, and Matt can’t help it — he flinches back so hard that his back hits the wall.

 

“Please don’t do that,” he manages.

 

“I thought you were dead,” Shiro says.

 

“Well, you almost just gave me a heart attack, so I’d be double dead,” Matt says. “Hey, would those cancel each other out?”

 

“No,” Shiro says softly.

 

“Alright, Holt, I’ll be going then,” Meas says, groaning as she tries unsuccessfully to get out of the chair before Shiro offers her an elbow.

 

“Why are you in my apartment, anyway?” Matt asks.

 

“I didn’t want to miss you when you came back,” Shiro says.

 

“Well, I’m back,” Matt says. “And now you should go too. It’s okay, you didn’t miss anything important. Allura can fill you in on the details,” and dumps his purchases out on the table, bottles clinking against each other within the cloth bag.

 

“What?” Shiro asks helplessly.

 

“I’m about to drink my bodyweight in shitty alcohol and I’ll probably start screaming at you if you stay, so you should go,” Matt says, pulling bottles out of the bag.

 

“I thought — but — you said you were stopping,” Shiro says, his voice sounding small and lost. “You told me you’d quit.”

 

“I did tell you that,” Matt agrees, surveying the small fleet of bottles before he picks out the biggest one. “And I did stop. For a while. And then I quit stopping. It’s not your fault, it just is what it is, and what it is is Squiggly Time and it sucks.” He unscrews the bottle cap and takes a swig, making a face at the burn as the algae spirits hit the back of his throat. Don’t taste good, but they do the job. “I’ve been intravenously hydrated, though, so I’m all recovered and good to go. Check in in… two weeks? Three to be safe. I’ll be less screamy.”

 

“It’s not safe for you to be alone,” Shiro says.

 

“I survived it alone the year before last,” Matt says. “And the year before that. It’ll be fine.”

 

“You have a job this year,” Shiro says.

 

Matt shrugs and takes another drink. “Eena’s got it covered.”

 

“Matt —” Shiro starts plaintively. 

 

“Seriously, Shiro,” Matt says. “Go.”

 

“No,” Shiro says, flatly.

 

“Yes,” Matt says.

 

“No,” Shiro says.

 

“Fine, then stay and gird your loins for some quality insults,” Matt snaps. “I’m trying to protect you, you miserable prick.”

 

“Shiro, I think it’d be wise —” Allura starts.

 

“ _No_ ,” Shiro says thunderously.

 

“Get out, Shirogane, or I throw you out,” Matt spits.

 

Shiro stares at him silently, and Matt stares back, even though his heartbeat is starting to thump through his throat, because he’s not nineteen and helpless anymore but he’s suddenly nauseatingly aware of how much bigger Shiro is than him, stronger, faster, Shiro could do whatever he wanted to him and Matt wouldn’t be able to stop him, wouldn’t be able to do _anything_ , on the ground with the deafening roar of the Arena’s crowd echoing through the purple walls closing in around him and his one friend in the world looming over him holding the hooked sword that just ripped through his knee and it’s not enough, Shiro never thinks it’s enough, Matt’s got bruises and broken fingers and a broken wrist and blood seeping through his pants and _It’s going to be ugly_ , Shiro had said, _If they throw you in there it’ll hurt, they don’t like it when it’s over too quickly_ , Shiro had said, _Maybe it’d be better_ , Shiro had started, and he’d never finished his sentence even though Matt had asked _What? What’d be better?_ but Shiro’s finishing it now, Shiro’s trying to be merciful, Shiro’s going to k—

 

“Shiro, please go away,” Matt chokes out. “I can’t do this now. Not now. _Please_ ,” and Shiro stares at him for a moment longer and then gets up and leaves, Allura slamming the door on their way out, and Matt waits until the sound of their footfalls dies away before he picks up the bottle and begins again to drink.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CWs: Explicit alcoholism; an alcoholic relapse and the fallout of that, including emotional fallout in the character’s relationships; explicit PTSD; references to past torture; disassociation; paranoia; persistent intrusive thoughts/memories of warfare, torture, imprisonment, rape/s, and violence; explicit moments of body horror related to past warfare; explicit references to the past death of children and noncombatants; anxiety about food insecurity; discussion of a physically, emotionally, and financially abusive relationship; (vague) references to past emotional and verbal child abuse and neglect; a character feeling suicidal and another character being afraid that they’ll make a suicide attempt (although no attempt occurs)
> 
> Kink CNs: Power play; pain play; temperature play; CBT (i.e. cock and ball torture, not cognitive behavioral therapy, although Matt could use some of that too); and a character doing a kink scene even though they’re secretly in a seriously bad headspace for it and having persistent intrusive thoughts/memories of past torture and rape/s throughout the scene. (PSA: Check-ins should go both ways and doms can safeword out of scenes too! And definitely should, if they’re in a headspace like Matt is in this chapter!)
> 
> A/N: I’ve started a new side hustle, so chapters will take a little longer to come out. Thank you for your patience and your delicious, delicious comments. No joke, I do a happy little wiggle dance every single time I see a new comment notification in my inbox, and I re-read every comment, like… five times? Minimum? Speaking of which, taking a poll: Would people like me to respond to their comments? I’m pretty bad at it, but I miss Livejournal and comment threads.


	13. Written Warning

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (8:37) Professor, will you be out sick today too?

 

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (9:24) Professor Holt?

 

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (10:40) We’ve been here about half a varga and I haven’t heard anything back from you, so I’m going to assume you’re not coming? 

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (10:41) I have the lesson plan you gave me, so I can lead the L1 through it.

 

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (10:47) I’m going to do that while I wait for you to get back to me.

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (10:47) I hope you feel better soon!

 

 

*

 

 

9 NEW MISSED CALLS: the white knight

4 NEW MISSED CALLS: it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa

 

 

*

 

 

**the white knight:** (20:09) I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but can you at least check in so I know you’re okay?

 

 

*

 

 

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (14:33) Professor? I don’t really know what to do for L3, so I just had them grade L1.

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (14:33) Will you be back in class soon?

 

 

*

 

*

 

 

**imma surVIvor:** (14:06) I’m assuming you’re not going to make our scheduled session.

**imma surVIvor:** (14:06) It’s alright if you need time.

**imma surVIvor:** (14:07) But can you talk to Eena soon? She’s really worried about you.

 

 

*

 

 

10 NEW MISSED CALLS: it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa

5 NEW MISSED CALLS: the white knight

2 NEW MISSED CALLS:  made of  ☆ stuff

 

 

*

 

 

_— grass, trees, gravel under his hands, gravel under his body, dirt under his body, mud under his body, Get up, they say, but he can’t, he hasn’t eaten and no one will trade bunks with him so he can’t sleep until someone dies and he can claim their spot, Get up, he tries but his arms won’t hold him up, mud splashing across his face, light flashing off a blaster, Sh’ma Yisra’eil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad, moving towards him, looming over him, reaching down —_

 

 

*

 

 

INCIDENT REPORT

CASE #: 90542008

DATE: 19’Tize 422FA

TIME OF INCIDENT: 3:56

REPORTING OFFICER: Warit Lashash

PREPARED BY: Xo Nou Bin

 

DETAIL OF EVENT: 

Police received report from a citizen at District 16 Municipal Park that a man was there “acting strange”. Report indicated that the man was unaccompanied and smelled strongly of alcohol. Report was rerouted to health responders. When responders arrived, the man was found lying on the ground. The man was not oriented to time, place, or person; could not rise or stand on his own; and although responders were unfamiliar with the man’s species, he showed what responders believed to be signs of alcohol poisoning.

 

ACTIONS TAKEN:

Based on the man’s condition and first responders being unfamiliar with his species’s medical needs, responders determined that the man required more advanced attention. The man was transported to a nearby clinic for treatment.

 

CONCLUSION:

The man, identified by DNA registry as Matthew Holt, human, residing at:  180 7E Moundalley Street, Apt. 4D; The Baths, District 16; Quuduzh City, Quuduzh was treated by Waterway Lane Clinic and held until determined to be safe to discharge, after which he was released with instructions for medical follow up. This is the man’s fifth such incident to date.

 

 

*

 

 

1 NEW VOICEMAIL

 

Hi, Holt. This is Zirahbar az Mali calling from Waterway regarding medical follow up from your little visit with us last night, since you walked out without your discharge instructions. Next time you’re here, you’ll have to tell me how you managed to sneak past the front desk. At least we have your number on file. Your actual discharge papers are being sent electronically, but the treatment summary is the same as usual: saline, electrolytes, 5-HT3 antagonist, trauma scan, STI scan as per your request on file. No big injuries, but we had to liquid suture the cut above your eye and your STI scan came back positive for balayhdas, so you were given antibiotics to take home, which apparently did leave with you even if the papers didn’t. Once a day for a week, and come back after that to be retested to make sure they killed the little blood wigglers. Make sure to finish the whole pack. You _don’t_ want to end up with a resistant form. Take it from someone who’s seen a lot of people’s junk — it’s nasty. Anyway, if you have any questions about any of this, you can call us back at this number. Rest, fluids, food, if you have to drink don’t get drunk. And take your discharge papers with you next time.

 

 

*

 

 

>CHAT CONTINUED: TEAM WE KNOW STRATEGY

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] Hey, are you okay? We haven’t heard anything from you in a while. Revve’s worried.

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] So is Pa’Tema, although they’ll never admit it.

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] If there’s something going on that you don’t want to talk about on the main chat— you know you can talk to me, right? I get that you don’t know me that well, but I’m here.

[ ♡ ALTNmice-snuggles ♡ ] But either way, you should talk to Ptau. He really isn’t kidding about that attendance policy.

 

 

 

*

 

 

3 NEW MISSED CALLS: the white knight

4 NEW MISSED CALLS: it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa

 

 

*

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

_I love you, Matt, I love you, I promise I’ll find you!_

 

 

*

 

**r u pidging me:** (0:01) guess who’s 36 as of 1 minute ago and already turning the color of an actual pigeon?

**r u pidging me:** (0:01) but the grey hair looks distinguished, right? that’s what shiro says.

**r u pidging me:** (0:02) anyway, i wanted to ask about your schedule today.

**r u pidging me:** (0:02) allura planned a party for me (it’s supposed to be a surprise, but i have spies) but i wanted to spend some time with you too. why don’t i come hang out with you this evening? 

**r u pidging me:** (0:03) don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to throw me a second party. we can just eat takeout and work on Lizard or whatever.

**r u pidging me:** (0:04) just let me know what you want to do! i already cleared my schedule for today and tomorrow so i can come whatever time works for you.

 

**r u pidging me:** (8:01) matt?

 

**r u pidging me:** (12:56) i talked to shiro. he told me you’re not doing well.

**r u pidging me:** (12:56) message me to let me know you’re not dead?

 

3 NEW MISSED CALLS: r you pidging me

 

**r u pidging me:** (16:31) just message me anything. please. please don’t do this today.

 

4 NEW MISSED CALLS: r you pidging me

 

**r u pidging me:** (20:18) fine. be that way.

 

 

*

 

 

2 NEW MISSED CALLS: the white knight

4 NEW MISSED CALLS: it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa

1 NEW MISSED CALL: University of Quuduzh Department of Professorial Affairs

 

 

*

 

* * *

 

FROM: profaffairsadmin@quu/univ.galax

TO: holtm@quu/univ.galax

 

SUBJECT: Written Warning

 

This written warning is issued for your failure to meet the performance expectations of your position, specifically your poor attendance of classes. This is your opportunity to correct your unsatisfactory performance. In order for your performance to be considered satisfactory, you must achieve and maintain the following performance standards:

 

  * Attend 100% of classes with the exception of five (5) days of leave for use during the remainder of the semester  

  * Post schedule of and maintain consistent drop-in advisory hours for students  

  * Assign no more than 15% professorial duties to teaching assistant



 

You are officially on probation beginning immediately and extending until 30’Mazim 822FA.

 

Failure to adhere to the conditions of this written warning, development of new or related problems, and/or continued unsatisfactory performance will lead to more serious corrective action up to and including termination of your employment.

 

Sincerely,

23’Tize 822FA

 

* * *

 

 

*

 

 

**it’s wing-GAR-dee-am LEV-ee-OH-sa:** (17:04) I’m sorry, Professor, but Mx. Cheobao from the PA office kept asking me where you were and I didn’t have any answers anymore.

 

 

*

 

 

1 NEW VOICEMAIL

 

This is Zirahbar az Mali calling from Waterway as regards to your visit here yesterday. It’s our policy to contact anyone who leaves the clinic against medical advice to try to set up a follow-up appointment, especially if that person fell down an entire flight of stairs and didn’t even wait to entirely sober up before they signed themselves out. The gods must be smiling down on you, Holt, because you should be dead. The only reason you’re not is that you were too intoxicated to tense up when you hit anything. Somehow, nothing was broken or cracked, but your legs were scraped up from your prostheses, and as you know, you’re at a high risk for infections and complications in that area. The laceration on your liver that you sustained during the fall is too small to need surgery, but the level of scarring we discovered there indicates cirrhosis, and you need to come back for further testing and treatment right away.

 

 

*

 

 

>CHAT OPENED

[ptau_demi] I really hate to do this, but you’ve missed the last three games. We’re pretty clear in our description on the web that we have mandatory attendance in order to stay a member of the group — obviously, we get that things happen, but you haven’t given us any explanation or warning that you wouldn’t be there. I don’t want to kick you out of the group — I’ve never had to do that before — but you’ve got two weeks to get in touch with me and give me an explanation, okay? Otherwise I’ll write Ai out and you’ll have to wait until the next campaign.

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

NO NEW MISSED CALLS

 

 

*

 

 

_Keycard, courtyard, elevator button fourth floor, doesn’t know when he’s last been back here doesn’t know how many days he’s been somewhere else, trip stumble smack metal against his cheek but he doesn’t feel it, it happens to someone else, someone with a body, DING, stumble sway green walkway railing everything soft everything distant, door. Key code, dull fingers third try open WHOOSH and stumble inside, Cat? Cat? Cat? no answer no movement she’s fine she feeds herself she’ll be fine piece of paper on the floor it’s fine he’ll read it later, catch himself on table, chair, wall, push the sliding windows open, green, green everywhere, leaves brushing his sunburnt face sunlight hot on his skin, no pain, too distant for pain, happened to someone else, locked door; safe, safe, safe, room swimming around him blur of color and light sitting standing stumbling DOOR WHOOSHING OPEN, FLASH OF MOVEMENT —_ _ INTRUDER! ENEMY! _ _harsh Galran shouts and boots pounding up the stairs no time to think no time to wait_ _ ENEMY _ _grab closest thing at hand and lunge kill or be killed_ _ ENEMY _ _but this Galra soldier is so_ _small_ _—_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: explicit alcoholism
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments. A lot of the time, writing feels like yelling out into the void, so it's always very affirming to hear the void yell back.


End file.
